The  So-Called 
Human    Race 


BOOKS  BY 
BERT  LEST  ON  TAYLOR 

A  PENNY   WHISTLE 

THE    SO-CALLED    HUMAN    RACE 

THE   EAST  WINDOW 

(Fall,  1922) 

And   others   in   a   uniform   col 
lected  edition,  to  be  ready  later. 

New  York:  Alfred  •  A  •  Knopf 


The  So-Called 
Human   Race 


by 
Bert  Leston  Taylor 


Arranged,  with    an   Introduction,   by 

Henry  B.  Fuller 


New  York      ^^S^f^^    1922 

Alfred  •  A  •  Knopf 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published,  March,  1922 
Second  Printing,  April,  19it 


Set  vj>  and  electrotyped  ly  J.  J.  Little  &  Ive»  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Paper  furnished  by  W.  F.  Etherington  &  Co.,  New  York,  .V.  Y. 

Printed   by  the  Vail-Bollou  Co.,  Binghamton,  N.  Y. 

Bound  ly  the  H.  Wolff  Estate,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


MANUFACTURED     IN     TH5     UNITED     STATES     OF    AMERICA 


WORLD  WITHOUT  END 

Once  upon  a  summer's  night 
Mused  a  mis  chief -making  sprite, 
Underneath  the  leafy  hood 
Of  a  fairy-haunted  wood. 
Here  and  there,  in  light  and  shade, 
Ill-assorted  couples  strayed: 
"Lord,"  said  Puck,  in  elfish  glee, 
"Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be!" 

Now  he  sings  the  self-same  tune 

Underneath  an  older  moon. 

Life  to  him  is,  plain  enough, 

Still  a  game  of  blind  man's  buff. 

If  we  listen  we  may  hear 

Puckish  laughter  always  near, 

And  the  elfs  apostrophe, 

"Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be!" 

B.   L.   T. 


590562 


Foreword 

By  Henry  B.  Fuller 

Bert  Leston  Taylor  (known  the  country  over 
as  "B.  L.  T.")  was  the  first  of  our  day's 
"colyumists" — first  in  point  of  time,  and  first  in 
point  of  merit.  For  nearly  twenty  years,  with 
some  interruptions,  he  conducted  "A  Line-o'-Type 
or  Two"  on  the  editorial  page  of  the  Chicago 
Tribune.  His  broad  column — broad  by  measure 
ment,  broad  in  scope,  and  a  bit  broad,  now  and 
again,  in  its  tone — cheered  hundreds  of  thou 
sands  at  the  breakfast-tables  of  the  Middle  West, 
and  on  its  trains  and  trolleys.  As  the  "Column" 
grew  in  reputation,  "making  the  Line"  became 
almost  a  national  sport.  Whoever  had  a  happy 
thought,  whoever  could  handily  turn  a  humorous 
paragraph  or  tune  a  pointed  jingle,  was  only  too 
glad  to  attempt  collaboration  with  B.  L.  T. 
Others,  possessing  no  literary  knack,  chanced  it 
with  brief  reports  on  the  follies  or  ineptitudes  of 
the  "so-called  human  race."  Some  of  them 
picked  up  their  matter  on  their  travels — these 
were  the  "Gadders."  Others  culled  oddities  from 
the  provincial  press,  and  so  gave  further  scope 

[vii] 


to  "The  Enraptured  Reporter,"  or  offered  selected 
gems  of  gaucherie  from  private  correspondence, 
and  thus  added  to  the  rich  yield  of  "The  Second 
Post."  Still  humbler  helpers  chipped  in  with 
queer  bits  of  nomenclature,  thereby  aiding  the  for 
mation  of  an  "Academy  of  Immortals" — an 
organization  fully  officered  by  people  with  droll 
names  and  always  tending,  as  will  become  appar 
ent  in  the  following  pages,  to  enlarge  and  vary 
its  roster. 

All  these  contributors,  as  well  as  many  other 
persons  who  existed  independently  of  the  "Line," 
lived  in  the  corrective  fear  of  the  "Cannery,1* 
that  capacious  receptacle  which  yawned  for  the 
trite  word  and  the  stereotyped  phrase.  Our 
language,  to  B.  L.  T.,  was  an  honest,  living 
growth :  deadwood,  whether  in  thought  or  in  the 
expression  of  thought,  never  got  by,  but  was 
marked  for  the  burning.  The  "Cannery,"  with 
its  numbered  shelves  and  jars,  was  a  deterrent 
indeed,  and  anyone  who  ventured  to  relieve  him 
self  as  "Vox  Populi"  or  as  a  conventional  versifier, 
did  well  to  walk  with  care. 

Over  all  these  aids,  would-be  or  actual,  pre 
sided  the  Conductor  himself,  furnishing  a  steady 
framework  by  his  own  quips,  jingles  and  phi- 
losophizings,  and  bringing  each  day's  exhibit  to 
an  ordered  unity.  The  Column  was  more  than 
the  sum  of  its  contributors.  It  was  the  sum  of 
[viii] 


units,  original  or  contributed,  that  had  been 
manipulated  and  brought  to  high  effectiveness  by 
a  skilled  hand  and  a  nature  wide  in  its  sympathies 
and  in  its  range  of  interests. 

Taylor  had  the  gift  of  opening  new  roads  and 
of  inviting  a  willing  public  to  follow.  Or,  to  put 
it  another  way,  he  had  the  faculty  of  making  new 
moulds,  into  which  his  helpers  were  only  too  glad 
to  pour  their  material.  Some  of  these  "leads" 
lasted  for  weeks;  some  for  months;  others  per 
sisted  through  the  years.  The  lifted  wand  evoked, 
marshalled,  vivified,  and  the  daily  miracle  came 
to  its  regular  accomplishment. 

Taylor  hewed  his  Line  in  precise  accord  with 
his  own  taste  and  fancy.  All  was  on  the  basis 
of  personal  preference.  His  chiefs  learned  early 
that  so  rare  an  organism  was  best  left  alone  to 
function  in  harmony  with  its  own  nature.  The 
Column  had  not  only  its  own  philosophy  and  its 
own  aesthetics,  but  its  own  politics :  if  it  seemed  to 
contravene  other  and  more  representative  de 
partments  of  the  paper,  never  mind.  Its  conduc 
tor  had  such  confidence  in  the  validity  of  his 
personal  predilections  and  in  their  identity  with 
those  of  uthe  general,"  that  he  carried  on  things 
with  the  one  rule  of  pleasing  himself,  certain  that 
he  should  find  no  better  rule  for  pleasing  others. 
His  success  was  complete. 

His  papers  and  clippings,  found  in  a  fairly 
[ix] 


forward  state  of  preparation,  gave  in  part  the 
necessary  indications  for  the  completion  of  this 
volume.  The  results  will  perhaps  lack  somewhat 
the  typographical  effectiveness  which  is  within  the 
reach  of  a  metropolitan  daily  when  utilized  by  a 
"colyumist"  who  was  also  a  practical  printer,  and 
they  can  only  approximate  that  piquant  employ 
ment  of  juxtaposition  and  contrast  which  made 
every  issue  of  UA  Line-o'-Type  or  Two"  a  work 
of  art  in  its  way.  But  no  arrangement  of  items 
from  that  source  could  becloud  the  essential 
nature  of  its  Conductor:  though  uThe  So-Called 
Human  Race"  sometimes  plays  rather  tartly  and 
impatiently  with  men's  follies  and  shortcomings, 
it  clearly  and  constantly  exhibits  a  sunny,  alert 
and  airy  spirit  to  whom  all  things  human  made 
their  sharp  appeal. 


w 


The  So-Called 
Human     Race 


ALINE-O'-TYPEORTWO 


Motto:    Hew  to  the  Line,  let 
the  quips  fall  where  they  may. 


SIMPLE 

MY  readers  are  a  varied  lot ; 
Their  tastes  do  not  agree. 
A  squib  that  tickles  A  is  not 
At  all  the  thing  for  B. 

What's  sense  to  J,  is  folderol 

To  K,  but  pleases  Q. 
So,  when  I  come  to  fill  the  Col, 

I  know  just  what  to  do. 

IT  is  refreshing  to  find  in  the  society  columns 
an  account  of  a  quiet  wedding.  The  conven 
tional  screams  of  a  groom  are  rather  trying. 

A  MAN  will  sit  around  smoking  all  day  and  his 
wife  will  remark:  "My  dear,  aren't  you  smoking 
too  much?"  The  doctor  cuts  him  down  to  three 
cigars  a  day,  and  his  wife  remarks:  "My  dear, 
aren't  you  smoking  too  much?"  Finally  he 
chops  off  to  a  single  after-dinner  smoke,  and  when 
he  lights  up  his  wife  remarks:  "John,  you  do 
nothing  but  smoke  all  day  long."  Women  are 
singularly  observant. 


NO  DO^BT  THERE  ARE  OTHERS. 

:  •  •'Siri:A  'gadder*  'fr-rend  of  mine  has  been  on  the 
road  so  long  that  he  always  speaks  of  the  parlor 
in  his  house  as  the  lobby.  E.  C.  M. 

WITH  the  possible  exception  of  Trotzky,  Mr. 
Hearst  is  the  busiest  person  politically  that  one 
is  able  to  wot  of.  Such  boundless  zeal!  Such 
measureless  energy!  Such  genius — an  infinite 
capacity  for  giving  pains ! 

ANCESTOR  worship  is  not  peculiar  to  any  tribe 
or  nation.  We  observed  last  evening,  on  North 
Clark  street,  a  crowd  shaking  hands  in  turn  with 
an  organ-grinder's  monkey. 

"!N  FACT,"  says  an  editorial  on  Uncongenial 
Clubs,  "a  man  may  go  to  a  club  to  get  away  from 
congenial  spirits."  True.  And  is  there  any  more 
uncongenial  club  than  the  Human  Race?  The 
service  is  bad,  the  membership  is  frightfully  pro 
miscuous,  and  about  the  only  place  to  which  one 
can  escape  is  the  library.  It  is  always  quiet  there. 

SIGN  in  the  Black  Hawk  Hotel,  Byron,  111. :  "If 
you  think  you  are  witty  send  your  thoughts  to  B. 
L.  T.,  care  Chicago  Tribune.  Do  not  spring 
them  on  the  help.  It  hurts  efficiency." 

[2] 


AN  OBSERVANT  KANSAN. 

[From  the  Emporia   Gazette.] 

The  handsome  clerk  at  the  Harvey  House 
makes  this  profound  observation:  Any  girl  will 
flirt  as  the  train  is  pulling  out. 

THE  GIRL  OF  THE  PERIOD. 

She  formerly  talked  of  the  weather, 
The  'popular  book,  or  the  play; 
Her  old  line  of  chat 
Was  of  this  thing  or  that 
In  the  fashions  and  fads  of  the  day. 

But  now  she  discusses  eugenics, 
And  things  that  a  pundit  perplex; 

She  knocks  you  quite  flat 

With  her  new  line  of  chat, 
And  her  "What  do  you  think  about  sex?" 

"ARE  we  all  to  shudder  at  the  name  of  Rabe 
lais  and  take  to  smelling  salts?"  queries  an  edi 
torial  colleague.  "Are  we  to  be  a  wholly  lady 
like  nation?"  Small  danger,  brother.  Human 
nature  changes  imperceptibly,  or  not  at  all.  The 
objection  to  most  imitations  of  Rabelais  is  that 
they  lack  the  unforced  wit  and  humor  of  the 
original. 

A  PICTURE  of  Dr.  A.  Ford  Carr  testing  a  baby 
provokes  a  frivolous  reader  to  observe  that  when 

[3] 


the  babies  cry  the  doctor  probably  gives  them  a 
rattle. 

WHAT  DO  YOU  MEAN  "ALMOST"! 
[From  the  Cedar  Rapids  Republican.] 

The  man  who  writes  a  certain  column  in  Chi 
cago  can  always  fill  two-thirds  of  it  with  quota 
tions  and  contributions.  But  that  may  be  called 
success — when  they  bring  the  stuff  to  you  and 
are  almost  willing  to  pay  you  for  printing  it. 

WE'LL  TELL  THE  PLEIADES  SO. 

Sir:  "I'll  say  she  is,"  "Don't  take  it  so  hard/' 
"I'll  tell  the  world."  These,  and  other  slangy  ex 
plosives  from  our  nursery,  fell  upon  the  sensitive 
auditory  nerves  of  callers  last  evening.  I  am 
in  a  quandary,  whether  to  complain  to  the  missus 
or  write  a  corrective  letter  to  the  children's  school 
teachers,  for  on  the  square  some  guy  ought  to 
bawl  the  kids  out  for  fair  about  this  rough  stuff 
— it  gets  my  goat.  J.  F.  B. 

DID  you  think  "I'll  say  so"  was  new  slang? 
Well,  it  isn't.  You  will  find  it  in  Sterne's  "Senti 
mental  Journey." 

FORMULA  for  accepting  a  second  cigar  from  a 
man  whose  taste  in  tobacco  is  poor:  "Thank you; 
the  courtesy  is  not  all  yours." 

[4] 


A  NUMBER  of  suicides  are  attributed  to  the  im 
pending  conjunction  of  the  planets  and  the  men 
ace  of  world-end.  You  can  interest  anybody  in 
astronomy  if  you  can  establish  for  him  a  connec 
tion  between  his  personal  affairs  and  the  move 
ments  of  the  stars. 


WHERE  'VANGIE  LIES. 
Rondeau  Sentimental  to  Evangeline,  the  Office  Goat. 

Where  'Vangie  lies  strown  folios 

Like  Vallambrosan  leaves  repose, 

The  sad,  the  blithe,  the  quaint,  the  queer, 
The  good,  the  punk  are  scattered  here — 

A  pile  of  poof  in  verse  and  prose. 

And  none  would  guess,  save  him  who  strows, 
How  much  transcendent  genius  goes 
Unwept,  unknown,  into  the  smear 

Where  'Vangie  lies. 

With  every  opening  mail  it  snows 
Till  'Vangie's  covered  to  her  nose. 

Forgetting  that  she  is  so  near, 

I  sometimes  kick  her  in  the  ear. 
Then  sundry  piteous  ba-a-a's  disclose 

Where  'Vangie  lies. 

uTms  sale,"  advertises  a  candid  clothier,  "lasts 
only  so  long  as  the  goods  last,  and  that  won't  be 
very  long." 


THE  SECOND  POST. 

(Letter  from  an  island  caretaker.) 

Dear  Sir :  Your  letter  came.  Glad  you  bought 
a  team  of  horses.  Hilda  is  sick.  She  has  diph 
theria  and  she  will  die  I  think.  Clara  died  this 
eve.  She  had  it,  too.  We  are  quarantined.  Five 
of  Fisher's  family  have  got  it.  My  wife  is  sick. 
She  hain't  got  it.  If  this  thing  gets  worse  we  may 
have  to  get  a  doctor.  Them  trees  are  budding 
good.  Everything  is  O.  K. 

JUST  as  we  started  to  light  a  pipe  preparatory 
to  filling  this  column,  we  were  reminded  of  Whis 
tler's  remark  to  a  student  who  was  smoking: 
"You  should  be  very  careful.  You  know  you 
might  get  interested  in  your  work  and  let  your 
pipe  go  out." 

IT  is  odd,  and  not  uninteresting  to  students  of 
the  so-called  human  race,  that  a  steamfitter  or  a 
manufacturer  of  suspenders  who  may  not  know 
the  difference  between  the  Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence  and  the  Constitution — who  may  not,  in 
deed,  know  anything  at  all — is  nevertheless  a  bub 
bly-fountain  of  political  wisdom ;  whereas  a  writer 
for  a  newspaper  is  capable  of  emitting  only  drivel. 
This  may  be  due  to  the  greater  opportunity  for 
meditation  enjoyed  by  suspender-makers  and 
steamfitters. 

[6] 


JANESVILLE'S  Grand  Hotel  just  blew  itself  on 
its  Thanksgiving  dinner.  The  menu  included 
"Cheese  a  la  Fromage." 

"Ix  is  with  ideas  we  shall  conquer  the  world," 
boasts  Lenine.  If  he  needs  a  few  more  he  can  get 
them  at  the  Patent  Office  in  Washington,  which  is 
packed  with  plans  and  specifications  of  perpetual 
motion  machines  and  other  contraptions  as  un 
workable  as  bolshevism. 

HEARD  IN  THE  BANK. 

A  woman  from  the  country  made  a  deposit  con 
sisting  of  several  items.  After  ascertaining  the 
amount  the  receiving  teller  asked,  "Did  you  foot 
it  up?"  "No,  I  rode  in,"  said  she. 

H.  A.  N. 

THE  fact  that  Abraham  Lincoln,  George  Wash 
ington,  and  other  great  departed  whose  names 
are  taken  in  vain  every  day  by  small-bore  poli 
ticians,  do  not  return  and  whack  these  persons 
over  the  heads  with  a  tambourine,  is  almost — as 
Anatole  France  remarked  in  an  essay  on  Flaubert 
— is  almost  an  argument  against  the  immortality 
of  the  soul. 

HARPER'S  WEEKLY  refrains  from  comment  on 
the  shipping  bill  because,  says  its  editor,  "we  have 
not  been  able  to  accumulate  enough  knowledge." 


Well!  If  every  one  refrained  from  expressing 
an  opinion  on  a  subject  until  he  was  well  informed 
the  pulp  mills  would  go  out  of  business  and  a 
great  silence  would  fall  upon  the  world. 

IT  is  pleasant  to  believe  the  sun  is  restoring 
its  expended  energy  by  condensation,  and  that  the 
so-called  human  race  is  in  the  morning  of  its  ex 
istence;  and  it  is  necessary  that  the  majority 
should  believe  so,  for  otherwise  the  business  of 
the  world  would  not  get  done.  The  happiest 
cynic  would  be  depressed  by  the  sight  of  hu 
manity  sitting  with  folded  hands,  waiting  apatheti 
cally  for  the  end. 

PERHAPS  the  best  way  to  get  acquainted  with 
the  self-styled  human  race  is  to  collect  money 
from  it. 

TO  A  WELI^KNOWN  GLOBE. 

I  would  not  seem  to  slam  our  valued  planet, — 
Space,  being  infinite,  may  hold  a  worse ; 

Nor  would  I  intimate  that  if  I  ran  it 
Its  vapors  might  disperse. 

Within  our  solar  system,  or  without  it, 

May  be  a  world  less  rationally  run ; 
There  may  be  such  a  geoid,  but  I  doubt  it — 

I  can't  conceive  of  one. 

[8] 


If  from  the  time  our  sphere  began  revolving 

Until  the  present  writing  there  had  been 
A  glimmer  of  a  promise  of  resolving 

The  muddle  we  are  in: 
If  we  could  answer  "Whither  are  we  drifting?" 

Or  hope  to  wallow  out  of  the  morass — 
I  might  continue  boosting  and  uplifting ; 

But  as  it  is,  I  pass. 
So  on  your  way,  old  globe,  wherever  aiming, 

Go  blundering  down  the  endless  slopes  of  space : 
As  far  away  the  prospect  of  reclaiming 

The  so-called  human  race. 
Gyrate,  old  Top,  and  let  who  will  be  clever; 

The  mess  we're  in  is  much  too  deep  to  solve. 
Me  for  a  quiet  life  while  you,  as  ever, 

Continue  to  revolve. 

"OUR  editorials,"  announces  the  Tampa  Trib 
une,  uare  written  by  members  of  the  staff,  and  do 
not  necessarily  reflect  the  policy  of  the  paper." 
Similarly,  the  contents  of  this  column  are  written 
by  its  conductor  and  the  straphangers,  and  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  its  policy. 

"WHAT,  indeed?"  as  Romeo  replied  to  Juliet's 
query.  And  yet  Ralph  Dilley  and  Irene  Pickle 
were  married  in  Decatur  last  week. 

HE  WAS  heard  to  observe,  coming  from  the 
theater  into  the  thick  of  the  wind  and  snow:  uGod 
help  the  rich;  the  poor  can  sleep  with  their  win 
dows  shut." 

[9] 


WE  have  received  a  copy  of  the  first  issue  of 
The  Fabulist,  printed  in  Hingham  Centre,  Mass., 
and  although  we  haven't  had  time  to  read  it,  we 
like  one  of  its  ideas.  "Contributions,"  it  an 
nounces,  umust  be  paid  for  in  advance  at  space 


rates." 


THE  viewpoint  of  Dr.  Jacques  Duval  (interest 
ingly  set  forth  by  Mr.  Arliss)  is  that  knowledge  is 
more  important  than  the  life  of  individual  mem 
bers  of  the  so-called  human  race.  But  even  Duval 
is  a  sentimentalist.  He  believes  that  knowledge 
is  important. 

AMONG  reasonable  requests  must  be  included 
that  of  the  Hotel  Fleming  in  Petersburg,  Ind. : 
"Gentlemen,  please  walk  light  at  night.  The 
guests  are  paying  75  cents  to  sleep  and  do  not 
want  to  be  disturbed." 

WE  have  recorded  the  opinion  that  the  Lum 
Turn  Lumber  Co.  of  Walla  Walla,  Wash.,  would 
make  a  good  college  yell ;  but  the  Wishkah  Boom 
Co.  of  Wishkah,  Wash.,  would  do  even  better. 

SOME  ONE  was  commiserating  Impresario  Dip- 
pel  on  his  picturesque  assortment  of  griefs. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "an  impresario  is  a  man  who  has 
trouble.  If  he  hasn't  any  he  makes  it." 

[10] 


WHAT  is  the  use  of  expositions  of  other  men's 
philosophic  systems  unless  the  exposition  is  made 
lucid  and  interesting?  Philosophers  are  much  like 
certain  musical  critics :  they  write  for  one  another, 
in  a  jargon  which  only  themselves  can  understand. 

O  SHADE  of  Claude  Debussy,  for  whom  the  bells 
of  hell  or  heaven  go  tingalingaling  (for  wherever 
you  are  it  is  certain  there  are  many  bells — great 
bells,  little  bells,  bells  in  high  air,  and  bells  be 
neath  the  sea),  how  we  should  rejoice  that  the 
beautiful  things  which  you  dreamed  are  as  a  book 
that  is  sealed  to  most  of  those  who  put  them  upon 
programmes ;  for  these  do  not  merely  play  them 
badly,  they  do  not  play  them  at  all.  Thus  they 
cannot  be  spoiled  for  us,  nor  can  our  ear  be 
dulled;  and  when  the  few  play  them  that  under 
stand,  they  are  as  fresh  and  beautiful  as  on  the 
day  when  first  you  set  them  down. 

UTHE  increase  in  the  use  of  tobacco  by  women,11 
declares  the  Methodist  Board,  "is  appalling."  Is 
it  not?  But  so  many  things  are  appalling  that  it 
would  be  a  relief  to  everybody  if  a  board,  or  com 
mission,  or  other  volunteer  organization  were  to 
act  as  a  shock-absorber.  Whenever  an  appalling 
situation  arose,  this  group  could  be  appalled  for 
the  rest  of  us.  And  we,  knowing  that  the  board 
would  be  properly  appalled,  should  not  have  to 
worry. 


AD  of  a  Des  Moines  baggage  transfer  com 
pany:  "Don't  lie  awake  fearing  you'll  miss  your 
train — we'll  attend  to  that."  You  bet  they  do. 

THE  president  of  the  Printing  Press  and  Feed 
ers'  (sic)  union  estimates  that  a  family  in  New 
York  requires  $2,362  a  year  to  get  by.  Which 
sets  us  musing  on  the  days  of  our  youth  in  Man 
chester,  N.  H.,  when  we  were  envied  by  the 
others  of  the  newspaper  staff  because  we  got  $18 
a  week.  We  lived  high,  dressed  expensively  (for 
Manchester),  and  always  had  money  for  Wine 
and  Song.  How  did  we  manage  it?  Blessed  if 
we  can  remember. 

THE  soi-disant  human  race  appears  to  its  best 
advantage,  perhaps  its  only  advantage,  in  work. 
The  race  is  not  ornamental,  nor  is  it  over-bright, 
having  only  enough  wit  to  scrape  along  with. 
Work  is  the  best  thing  it  does,  and  when  it  seeks 
to  avoid  this,  its  reason  for  existence  disappears. 

"WHERE,"  asks  G.  N.,  "can  I  find  the  remain 
der  of  that  beautiful  Highland  ballad  beginning — 
'I  canna  drook  th*    stourie  tow, 
Nor  ither  soak  my  hoggie: 
Hae   cluttered   up   the  muckle   doon, 
An'  wow  but  I  was  voggie.'  " 

WOMEN  regard  hair  as  pianists  regard  tcchnic: 
one  can't  have  too  much  of  it. 
[12] 


THE  demand  for  regulation  of  the  sale  of  wood 
alcohol  reminds  Uncle  Henry  of  Horace  Greeley's 
remark  when  he  was  asked  to  subscribe  to  a  mis 
sionary  fund  "to  save  his  fellow-man  from  going 
to  hdl."  Said  Hod,  "Not  enough  of  them  go 
there  now." 

A  FEW  lines  on  the  literary  page  relate  that 
Edith  Alice  Maitland,  who  recently  died  in  Lon 
don,  was  the  original  of  "Alice  In  Wonderland." 
Lewis  Carroll  wrote  the  book  for  her,  and  per 
haps  read  chapters'  to  her  as  he  went  along. 
Happy  author,  happy  reader!  If  the  ordering 
of  our  labors  were  entirely  within  our  control  we 
should  write  exclusively  for  children.  They  are 
more  intelligent  than  adults,  have  a  quicker  appre 
hension,  and  are  without  prejudices.  In  address 
ing  children,  one  may  write  quite  frankly  and 
sincerely.  In  addressing  grown-ups  the  only  safe 
medium  of  expression  is  irony. 

GLEANED  by  R.  J.  S.  from  a  Topeka  church 
calendar:  "Preaching  at  8  p.  m.,  subject  'A  Voice 
from  Hell.'  Miss  Holman  will  sing." 

HERE  is  a  happy  little  suggestion  for  traveling 
men,  offered  by  S.  B.  T. :  "When  entering  the 
dining  room  of  a  hotel,  why  not  look  searchingly 
about  and  rub  hands  together  briskly?" 

[13] 


WHAT  could  be  more  frank  than  the  framed 
motto  in  the  Hotel  Fortney,  at  Viroqua,  Wis. — 
"There  Is  No  Place  Like  Home.0? 

As  TO  why  hotelkeepers  charge  farmers  less 
than  they  charge  traveling  men,  one  of  our  read 
ers  discovered  the  reason  in  1899:  The  gadder 
takes  a  bunch  of  toothpicks  after  each  meal  and 
pouches  them;  the  farmer  takes  only  one,  and 
when  he  is  finished  with  it  he  puts  it  back. 

IF  Plato  were  writing  to-day  he  would  have  no 
occasion  to  revise  his  notion  of  democracy — "a 
charming  form  of  government,  full  of  variety  and 
disorder,  and  dispensing  equality  to  equals  and 
unequals  alike." 

THE  older  we  grow  the  more  impressed  we  are 
by  the  amount  of  bias  in  the  world.  Thank 
heaven,  the  only  prejudices  we  have  are  religious, 
racial,  and  social  prejudices.  In  other  respects 
we  are  open  to  reason. 

FROM  the  calendar  of  the  Pike  county  court: 
"Shank  vs.  Shinn." 

Strange  all  this  difference  should  have  been 
'Twixt  Mr.  Shank  and  Mr.  Shinn. 
[14] 


HOME  TIES. 

Sir:  Discovered,  in  Minnesota,  the  country 
delegate  who  goes  to  bed  wearing  the  tie  his 
daughter  tied  on  him  before  he  left  home,  because 
he  wouldn't  know  how  to  tie  it  in  the  morning  if 
he  took  it  off.  J.  O.  C. 

THEY  FOUND  THEM  IN  THE  ALLEY. 

Sir:  A  young  man  promised  a  charming  young 
woman,  as  a  birthday  remembrance,  a  rose  for 
every  year  she  was  old.  After  he  had  given  the 
order  for  two  dozen  Killarneys,  the  florist  said  to 
his  boy:  "He's  a  good  customer.  Just  put  in  half 
a  dozen  extra."  M.  C.  G. 

"WHEN,"  inquires  a  fair  reader,  apropos  of 
our  remark  that  the  only  way  to  improve  the  so- 
called  human  race  is  to  junk  it  and  begin  over 
again,  uwhen  does  the  junking  begin?  Because 
..."  Cawn't  say  when  the  big  explosion  will 
occur.  But  look  for  us  in  a  neighboring  constella 
tion. 

When  they  junk  the  human  species 
We  will  meet  you,  love,  in  Pisces. 

THE  TOONERVILLE  TROLLEY. 

Sir :  Did  you  ever  ride  on  a  street  car  in  one  of 
those  towns  where  no  one  has  any  place  to  go  and 

[15] 


all  day  to  get  there  in?  The  conversation  runs 
something  like  this  between  the  motorman  and 
conductor : 

Conductor:  "Ding  ding!"  (Meaning,  "I'm 
ready  whenever  you  are.") 

Motorman:  "Ding  ding!"  ("Well,  I'm 
ready.") 

Conductor:  "Ding  ding!"  ("All  right,  you 
can  go.") 

Motorman:  "Ding  ding!"  ("I  gotcha, 
Steve.") 

Then  they  go.  P.  I.  N. 

O  WILD!    O  STRANGE! 
"That  wild  and  strange  thing,  the  press."— H.  G.  WELLS. 

It's  now  too  late,  I  fear,  to  change, 

For  ever  since  a  child 
I've  always  been  a  little  strange, 

And  just  a  little  wild. 

I  never  knew  the  reason  why, 

But  now  the  cause  I  guess — 
What  Mr.  Wells,  the  author,  calls 

"That  wild,  strange  thing,  the  press." 

I've  worked  for  every  kind  of  pape 

In  journalism's  range, 
And  some  were  tame  and  commonplace, 

But  most  were  wild  and  strange. 
[16] 


I  ran  a  country  paper  once — 

Or,  rather,  it  ran  me; 
It  was  the  strangest,  wildest  thing 

That  ever  you  did  see. 

Some  years  ago  I  settled  down 

And  thought  to  find  a  cure 
By  writing  books  and  plays  and  sich, 

That  class  as  litrachoor. 

And  for  a  time  I  lived  apart, 

In  abject  happiness; 
Yet  all  the  while  I  hankered  for 

That  strange,  wild  thing,  the  press. 

Its  fatal  fascination  I 

Could  not  resist  for  long; 
I  fled  the  path  of  litrachoor, 

And  once  again  went  wrong. 

I  resurrected  this  here  Col, 

By  which  you  are  beguiled. 
I  fear  you  find  it  strange  sometimes, 

And  always  rather  wild. 

A  DELEGATION  of  Socialists  has  returned  from 
Russia  with  the  news  that  Sovietude  leaves  every 
thing  to  be  desired,  that  "things  are  worse  than 
in  the  Czarist  days."  Naturally.  The  trouble 
is,  the  ideal  is  more  easily  achieved  than  retained. 
The  ideal  existed  for  a  few  weeks  in  Russia.  It 

[17] 


was  at  the  time  of  the  canning  of  Kerensky. 
Everybody  had  authority  and  nobody  had  it. 
Lincoln  Steffens,  beating  his  luminous  wings  in 
the  void,  beamed  with  joy.  The  ideal  had  been 
achieved;  all  government  had  disappeared.  But 
this  happy  state  could  not  last.  The  people  who 
think  such  a  happy  state  can  last  are  the  most  in 
teresting  minds  outside  of  the  high  brick  wall 
which  surrounds  the  institution. 


WHEN  one  consults  what  he  is  pleased  to  call 
his  mind,  this  planet  seems  the  saddest  and  mad 
dest  of  possible  worlds.  And  when  one  walks 
homeward  under  a  waning  moon,  through  Subur- 
bia's  deserted  lanes,  between  hedges  that  exhale 
the  breath  of  lilac  and  honeysuckle,  the  world 
seems  a  very  satisfactory  half-way  house  on  the 
road  to  the  Unknown.  Shall  we  trust  our  intelli 
gence  or  our  senses?  If  we  follow  the  latter  it 
is  because  we  wish  to,  not  because  they  are  a  more 
trustworthy  guide. 

ONE  must  agree  with  Mr.  Yeats,  that  the  poetic 
drama  is  for  a  very  small  audience,  but  we  should 
not  like  to  see  it  so  restricted.  For  a  good  share 
of  the  amusement  which  we  get  out  of  life  comes 
from  watching  the  attempts  to  feed  caviar  to  the 
general. 

[18] 


THE    POPOCATEPETL    OF    APPRECIATION. 

[From  the  Paris,   111.,   News.] 

For  the  past  seven  days  I  have  been  an  inmate 
at  the  county  jail,  and  through  the  columns  of  the 
Daily  News  I  wish  to  express  my  thanks  and  ap 
preciation  to  Sheriff  and  Mrs.  McCallister  and 
Mr.  McDaniel  for  the  kindness  shown  to  me.  I 
have  been  in  jail  before,  here  and  at  other  places, 
and  never  found  a  like  institution  kept  in  such  a 
sanitary  condition.  The  food  prepared  by  Mrs. 
McCallister  was  excellent.  In  my  opinion  Mr. 
McCallister  is  entitled  to  any  office. 

May  Claybaugh. 

A  COPY  of  the  second  edition  of  The  Ozark 
Harpist  is  received.     The  Harpist  is  Alys  Hale, 
who  sings  on  the  flyleaf: 
"Sing  on,  my  harp, 

Sing  on  some  more  and  ever, 
For  sweet  souls  are  breaking, 
And  fond  hearts  are  aching, 
Sing  on  some  more  and  ever!" 

WE  quite  agree  with  Mr.  Masefield  that  great 
literary  work  requires  leisure.  Lack  of  leisure  is 
handicapping  us  in  the  writing  of  a  romance.  We 
compose  it  while  waiting  for  trains,  while  shovel 
ing  snow  and  coal,  while  riding  on  the  L,  while 
shaving;  and  we  write  it  on  the  backs  of  en 
velopes,  on  the  covering  of  packages,  on  the  mar- 


gins  of  newspapers.  The  best  place  to  write  a 
book  is  in  jail,  where  Cervantes  wrote  Don  Quix 
ote;  but  we  can't  find  time  to  commit  a  greater 
misdemeanor  than  this  column,  and  there  is  no 
jail  sentence  for  that.  The  only  compensation 
for  the  literary  method  we  are  forced  to  adopt  is 
that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  "go"  in  it. 

REPLYING  to  an  extremely  dear  reader :  When 
ever  we  animadvert  on  the  human  race  we  include 
ourself.  We  share  its  imperfections,  and  we  hope 
we  are  tinctured  with  its  few  virtues.  As  a  race 
it  impresses  us  as  a  flivver;  we  feel  as  you,  per 
haps,  feel  in  your  club  when,  looking  over  the 
members,  you  wonder  how  the  dickens  most  of 
them  got  in. 

PROF.  PICKERING  is  quoted  as  declaring  that 
a  race  of  superior  beings  inhabits  the  moon.  Now 
we  are  far  from  claiming  that  the  inhabitants  of 
our  geoid  are  superior  to  the  moon  folk,  or  any 
other  folk  in  the  solar  system;  but  the  mere  fact 
that  the  Moonians  are  able  to  exist  in  conditions 
peculiar  to  themselves  does  not  make  them  su 
perior.  The  whale  can  live  under  water.  Is  the 
whale,  then,  superior  to,  say,  Senator  Johnson? 
True,  it  can  spout  farther,  but  it  is  probably  in 
ferior  to  Mr.  Johnson  in  reasoning  power. 

[20] 


THE  man  who  tells  you  that  he  believes  "in 
principles,  not  men,"  means — nothing  at  all.  One 
would  think  that  in  the  beginning  God  created  a 
set  of  principles,  and  man  was  without  form  and 
void. 

uLosr — Pair  of  trousers  while  shopping. 
Finder  call  Dinsmore  1869." — Minneapolis  Jour 
nal. 

The  female  of  the  shopping  species  is  rougher 
and  more  ruthless  than  the  male. 

"ANCIENT  Rome,  in  the  height  of  her  glory, 
with  her  lavish  amusements,  Olympian  games," 
etc. — The  enraptured  advertiser. 

The  proof  reader  asks  us  if  it  was  an  eruption 
of  Mt.  Olympus  that  destroyed  Pompeii. 

GARDENS. 

My  lady  hath  a  garden  fair, 
Wherein  she  whiles  her  hours: 

She  chides  me  that  I  do  not  share 
Her  rage  for  springing  flowers. 

I  tell  her  I've  a  garden,  too, 

Wherein  I  have  to  toil — 
The  kind  that  Epicurus  knew, 

If  not  so  good  a  soil. 
[21] 


And  I  must  till  my  patch  with  care, 

And  watch  its  daily  needs; 
For  lacking  water,  sun,  and  air, 

The  place  would  run  to  weeds. 

In  this  the  garden  of  the  mind, 

My  flowers  are  all  too  few; 
Yet  am  I  well  content  to  find 

A  modest  bloom  or  two. 

My  lady  hath  a  garden  fair, 
Or  will  when  buds  are  blown: 

I've  but  a  blossom  here  and  there — 
Poor  posies,  but  mine  own. 

"VERY  well,  here  is  a  constructive  criticism," 
declared  Col.  Roosevelt,  tossing  another  grenade 
into  the  administration  trenches.  The  Colonel  is 
our  favorite  constructive  critic.  After  he  has  fin 
ished  a  bit  of  construction  it  takes  an  hour  for 
the  dust  to  settle. 

JUDGMENT  DAY  will  be  a  complete  perform 
ance  for  the  dramatic  critics.  They  will  be  able 
to  stay  for  the  last  act. 

WHY  is  it  that  when  a  woman  takes  the  meas 
urements  for  a  screen  door  she  thinks  she  has  to 
allow  a  couple  of  inches  to  turn  in? 

"WOMAN  Lights  103  Candles  With  One 
Match." 

[22] 


Huh!  Helen,  with  one  match,  lit  the  topless 
towers  of  Ilium. 

IT  may  be — nay,   it  is — ungallant  so  to  say, 

but Well,  have  you,  in  glancing  over  the 

beauty  contest  exhibits,  observed  a  face  that 
would  launch  a  thousand  ships?  Or  five  hun 
dred? 

ULEARN  to  Speak  on  Your  Feet/'  advertises  a 
university  extension.  We  believe  we  could  tell 
all  we  know  about  ours  in  five  hundred  words. 

GOOD  NIGHT! 
[From  the  Omaha  Bee.] 

Mrs.  Riley  gave  a  retiring  party  in  honor  of 
her  husband. 

AT  the  Hotel  Dwan,  in  Benton  Harbor,  "rooms 
may  be  had  en  suite  or  connecting."  Or  should 
you  prefer  that  they  lead  one  into  another,  the 
management  will  be  glad  to  accommodate  you. 

GOVERNMENT  census  blanks  read  on  top  of 
sheet:  "Kindly  fill  out  questions  below."  One  of 
the  questions  is:  "Can  you  read?  Can  you  write? 
Yes  or  No?"  This  reminds  a  Minneapolis  man 
of  the  day  when  he  was  about  15  miles  from 
Minneapolis  and  read  on  a  guide  post:  "15  miles 
to  Minneapolis.  If  you  cannot  read,  ask  at  the 
grocery  store." 

[23] 


THE  wave  of  spiritualism  strikes  Mr.  Leacock 
as  absurd,  simply  absurd.  "And  yet  people  seem 
to  be  going  mad  over  it,"  he  adds.  What  do  you 
mean  uand  yet,"  Stephen?  Don't  you  mean  "con 
sequently"  ? 

A  JOLIET  social  item  mentions  the  engagement 
of  Miss  Lucille  Muff  De  Line.  We  don't  recall 
her  contribution. 


Gilded  Fairy  Tales. 

(Revised  and  regilded  for  comprehension  by  the 
children  of  the  very  rich.) 

THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD. 


ONCE  upon  a  time  there  dwelt  in  a  small 
but  very  expensive  cottage  on  the  outskirts 
of  a  pine  forest  a  gentleman  with  his  wife  and 
two  children.  It  was  a  beautiful  estate  and  the 
neighborhood  was  the  very  best.  Nobody  for 
miles  around  was  worth  less  than  five  million 
dollars. 

One  night  the  gentleman  tapped  at  his  wife's 
boudoir,  and  receiving  permission  to  enter,  he 
said:  "Pauline,  I  have  been  thinking  about  our 
children.  I  overheard  the  governess  say  to-day 
that  they  are  really  bright  and  interesting,  and 
as  yet  unspoiled.  Perhaps  if  they  had  a  fair 
chance  they  might  amount  to  something." 

"Reginald,"  replied  his  wife,  "you  are  grow 
ing  morbid  about  those  children.  You  will  be 
asking  to  see  them  next."  She  shrugged  Jier 
gleaming  shoulders,  and  rang  for  the  maid  to  let 
down  her  hair. 

"Remember  our  own  youth  and  shudder,  Paul 
ine,"  said  the  gentleman.  "It's  a  shame  to  allow 

[25] 


Percival  and  Melisande  to  grow  up  in  this  at 
mosphere/' 

"Well,"  said  the  lady  petulantly,  "what  do 
you  suggest?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  wise  and  humane  to  aban 
don  them.  The  butler  or  the  chauffeur  can  take 
them  into  the  wood  and  lose  them  and  some  peas 
ant  may  find  and  adopt  them,  and  they  may  grow 
up  to  be  worthy  citizens.  At  least  it  is  worth 
trying." 

uDo  as  you  please,"  said  the  lady.  "The  chil 
dren  are  a  collaboration;  they  are  as  much  yours 


as  mine." 


This  conversation  was  overheard  by  little  Meli 
sande,  who  had  stolen  down  from  her  little  bou 
doir  in  her  gold-flowered  nightdress  for  a  peep 
at  her  mamma,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  a  long, 
long  time.  The  poor  child  was  dreadfully  fright 
ened,  and  crept  upstairs  weeping  to  her  brother. 

"Pooh!"  said  Percival,  who  was  a  brave  little 
chap.  "We  shall  find  our  way  out  of  the  wood, 
never  fear.  Give  me  your  pearl  necklace,  Meli 
sande." 

The  wondering  child  dried  her  eyes  and  fetched 
the  necklace,  and  Percival  stripped  off  the  pearls 
and  put  them  in  the  pocket  of  his  velvet  jacket. 
"They  can't  lose  us,  sis,"  said  he. 


[26] 


In  the  morning  the  butler  took  the  children  a 
long,  long  way  into  the  woods,  pretending  that  he 
had  discovered  a  diamond  mine;  and,  bidding 
them  stand  in  a  certain  place  till  he  called,  he  went 
away  and  did  not  return.  Melisande  began  to 
weep,  as  usual,  but  Percival  only  laughed,  for  he 
had  dropped  a  pearl  every  little  way  as  they  en 
tered  the  wood,  and  the  children  found  their  way 
home  without  the  least  difficulty.  Their  father 
was  vexed  by  their  cleverness,  but  their  mamma 
smiled. 

"It's  fate,  Reginald,"  she  remarked.  "They 
were  born  for  the  smart  set,  and  they  may  as  well 
fulfill  their  destinies." 

uLet  us  try  once  more,"  said  the  gentleman. 
"Give  them  another  chance." 

When  the  servant  called  the  children  the  next 
morning  Percival  ran  to  get  another  pearl  neck 
lace,  but  the  jewel  cellar  was  locked,  and  the 
best  he  could  do  was  to  conceal  a  four-pound 
bunch  of  hothouse  grapes  under  his  jacket.  This 
time  they  were  taken  twice  as  far  into  the  wood  in 
search  of  the  diamond  mine;  and  alas!  when  the 
butler  deserted  them  Percival  found  that  the  birds 
had  eaten  every  grape  he  had  dropped  along  the 
way.  They  were  now  really  lost,  and  wandered 
all  day  without  coming  out  anywhere,  and  at  night 

[27] 


they  slept  on  a  pile  of  leaves,  which  Percival  said 
was  much  more  like  camping  out  than  their  sum 
mer  in  the  Adirondacks.  All  next  day  they  wan 
dered,  without  seeing  sign  of  a  road  or  a  chateau, 
and  Melisande  wept  bitterly. 

"I  am  so  hungry,"  exclaimed  the  poor  child. 
"If  we  only  could  get  a  few  marrons  glaces  for 
breakfast!'* 

"I  could  eat  a  few  macaroons  myself,"  said 
Percival. 

Ill 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  Percival 
and  Melisande  came  to  a  strange  little  cottage 
fashioned  of  gingerbread,  but  as  the  children  had 
never  tasted  anything  so  common  as  gingerbread 
they  did  not  recognize  it.  However,  the  cottage 
felt  soft  and  looked  pretty  enough  to  eat,  so  Per 
cival  bit  off  a  piece  of  the  roof  and  declared  it 
was  fine.  Melisande  helped  herself  to  the  door 
knob,  and  the  children  might  have  eaten  half  the 
cottage  had  not  a  witch  who  lived  in  it  come  out 
and  frightened  them  away.  The  children  ran  as 
fast  as  their  legs  could  work,  for  the  witch  looked 
exactly  like  their  governess,  who  tried  to  make 
them  learn  to  spell  and  do  other  disagreeable 
tasks. 

Presently  they  came  out  on  a  road  and  saw  a 
big  red  automobile  belonging  to  nobody  in  par- 

[28] 


ticular.  It  was  the  most  beautiful  car  imaginable. 
The  hubs  were  set  with  pigeon  blood  rubies  and 
the  spokes  with  brilliants ;  the  tires  were  set  with 
garnets  to  prevent  skidding,  and  the  hood  was 
inlaid  with  diamonds  and  emeralds.  Even  Per- 
cival  and  Melisande  were  impressed.  One  door 
stood  invitingly  open  and  the  children  sprang  into 
the  machine.  They  were  accustomed  to  helping 
themselves  to  everything  that  took  their  fancy; 
they  had  inherited  the  instinct. 

Percival  turned  on  the  gas.  "Hang  on  to  your 
hair,  sis!"  he  cried,  and  he  burnt  up  the  road  all 
the  way  home,  capsizing  the  outfit  in  front  of  the 
mansion  and  wrecking  the  automobile. 

Their  mamma  came  slowly  down  the  veranda 
steps  with  a  strange  gentleman  by  her  side. 
"These  are  the  children,  Edward,"  she  said,  pick 
ing  them  up,  uninjured  by  the  spill.  "Children, 
this  is  your  new  papa." 

The  gentleman  shook  hands  with  them  very 
pleasantly  and  said  he  hoped  that  he  should  be 
their  papa  long  enough  to  get  really  acquainted 
with  them.  At  which  remark  the  lady  smiled  and 
tapped  him  with  her  fan. 

And  they  lived  happily,  after  their  fashion, 
ever  afterward. 


[29] 


LITTLE  RED  RIDING-HOOD. 


Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  girl  who  was 
the  prettiest  creature  imaginable.  Her  mother 
was  excessively  fond  of  her,  and  saw  her  as  fre 
quently  as  possible,  sometimes  as  often  as  once  a 
month.  Her  grandmother,  who  doted  on  her 
even  more,  had  made  for  her  in  Paris  a  little  red 
riding  hood  of  velvet  embroidered  with  pearl  pas 
sementerie,  which  became  the  child  so  well  that 
everybody  in  her  set  called  her  Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood. 

One  day  her  mother  said  to  her:  "Go,  my 
dear,  and  see  how  your  grandmother  does,  for 
I  hear  she  has  been  ill  with  indigestion.  Carry 
her  this  filet  and  this  little  pot  of  foie  gras." 

The  grandmother  lived  in  a  secluded  and  ex 
clusive  part  of  the  village,  in  a  marble  cottage 
situated  in  the  midst  of  a  wooded  park.  Little 
Red  Riding-Hood  got  out  of  the  motor  when  she 
came  to  the  park,  telling  the  chauffeur  she  would 
walk  the  rest  of  the  way.  She  hardly  passed  the 
hedge  when  she  met  a  Wolf. 

"Whither  are  you  going?"  he  asked,  looking 
wistfully  at  her. 

"I  am  going  to  see  my  grandmother,  and  carry 
her  a  filet  and  a  little  pot  of  foie  gras  from  my 


mamma." 


[30] 


"Well,"  said  the  Wolf,  'Til  go  see  her,  too. 
I'll  go  this  way  and  you  go  that,  and  we  shall  see 
who  will  be  there  first." 

The  Wolf  ran  off  as  fast  as  he  could,  and  was 
first  at  the  door  of  the  marble  cottage.  The  but 
ler  informed  him  that  Madame  was  not  at  home, 
but  he  sprang  through  the  door,  knocking  the  ser 
vant  over,  and  ran  upstairs  to  Madame's  bou 
doir. 

"Who's  there?"  asked  the  grandmother,  when 
the  Wolf  tapped  at  the  door. 

"Your  grandchild,  Little  Red  Riding-Hood," 
replied  the  Wolf,  counterfeiting  the  child's  voice, 
"who  has  brought  you  a  filet  and  a  little  pot  of 
foie  gras." 

II 

The  good  grandmother,  who  had  eaten  nothing 
for  two  days  except  a  mallard,  with  a  pint  of 
champagne,  cried  out  hungrily,  "Come  in,  my 
dear." 

The  Wolf  ran  in,  and,  falling  upon  the  old 
lady,  ate  her  up  in  a  hurry,  for  he  had  not  tasted 
food  for  a  whole  week.  He  then  got  into  the 
bed,  and  presently  Little  Red  Riding-Hood 
tapped  at  the  door. 

The  Wolf  pitched  his  voice  as  high  and  un 
pleasant  as  he  could,  and  called  out,  "What  is 
it,  Hawkins?" 

[30 


"It  isn't  Hawkins,"  replied  Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood.  "It  is  your  grandchild,  who  has  brought 
you  a  filet  and  a  little  pot  of  foie  gras." 

"Come  in,  my  dear,"  responded  the  Wolf. 
And  when  the  child  entered  he  said:  "Put  the 
filet  and  the  little  pot  of  foie  gras  on  the  gold 
tabouret,  and  come  and  lie  down  with  me." 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood  did  not  think  it  good 
form  to  go  to  bed  so  very,  very  late  in  the  morn 
ing,   but  as   she   expected   to   inherit  her   grand 
mother's  millions  she  obediently  took  off  her  gold- 
flowered  frock,  and  her  pretty  silk  petticoat,  and 
her  dear  little  diamond  stomacher,  and  got  into 
bed,  where,  amazed  at  the  change  for  the  better 
in  her  grandmother's  appearance,  she  said  to  her : 
"Grandmother,  how  thin  your  arms  have  got!" 
"I  have  been  dieting,  my  dear." 
"Grandmother,  how  thin  your  legs  have  got!" 
"The  doctor  makes  me  walk  every  day." 
"Grandmother,  how  quiet  you  are !" 
"This  isn't  a  symphony  concert  hall,  my  dear." 
"Grandmother,  what  has  become  of  your  dia 
mond-filled  teeth?" 

"These  will  do,  my  dear." 
And  saying  these  words  the  wicked  Wolf  fell 
upon  Little  Red  Riding-Hood  and  ate  her  all  up. 


[32] 


JACK  AND  THE  BEANSTALK. 


Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  very  wealthy 
widow  who  lived  in  a  marble  cottage  approached 
by  a  driveway  of  the  same  stone,  bordered  with 
rhododendrons.  She  had  an  only  son,  Jack — a 
giddy,  thoughtless  boy,  but  very  kindhearted,  as 
many  a  hard-working  chorus  girl  had  reason  to 
remember.  Jack  was  an  idle  fellow,  whose  single 
accomplishment  was  driving  an  automobile,  in 
which  he  displayed  remarkable  skill  and  reckless 
ness  ;  there  was  hardly  a  day  he  did  not  run  over 
something  or  somebody.  One  day  he  bumped  a 
very  heavy  workingman,  whose  remains  messed 
up  the  car  so  badly  that  Jack's  mother  lost  pa 
tience  with  him.  uMy  dear,"  she  said,  "why 
don't  you  put  your  skill  and  energy  to  some  use? 
If  only  you  would  slay  the  giant  Ennui,  who  rav 
ages  our  country,  you  would  be  as  great  a  hero 
in  our  set  as  St.  George  of  England  was  in  his." 

Jack  laughed.  "Let  him  but  get  in  the  way  of 
my  car,"  said  he,  "and  I'll  knock  him  into  the 
middle  of  next  month." 

The  boy  set  out  gaily  for  the  garage,  to  have 
the  motor  repaired,  and  on  the  way  he  met  a 
green-goods  grocer  who  displayed  a  handful  of 
beautiful  red,  white,  and  blue  beans.  Jack  stopped 
to  look  at  what  he  supposed  was  a  new  kind 

[33] 


of  poker  chip,  and  the  man  persuaded  the  silly 
youth  to  exchange  the  automobile  for  the  beans. 

When  he  brought  home  the  "chips"  his  mother 
laughed  loudly.  "You  are  just  like  your  father; 
he  didn't  know  beans,  either,"  she  said.  uDig  a 
hole  in  the  tennis  court,  Jack,  and  plant  your 
poker  chips,  and  see  what  will  happen." 

Jack  did  as  he  was  told  to  do,  and  the  next 
morning  he  went  out  to  see  whether  anything  had 
happened.  What  was  his  amazement  to  find  that 
a  mass  of  twisted  stalks  had  grown  out  of  his  jack 
pot  and  climbed  till  they  covered  the  high  cliff 
back  of  the  tennis  court,  disappearing  above  it. 

II 

Jack  came  of  a  family  of  climbers.  His  mother 
had  climbed  into  society  and  was  still  climbing. 
The  funny  thing  about  climbers  is  that  they  never 
deceive  anybody;  every  one  knows  just  what  they 
are  up  to.  As  Jack  had  inherited  the  climbing 
passion  he  began  without  hesitation  to  ascend  the 
beanstalk,  and  when  he  reached  the  top  he  was 
as  tired  as  if  he  had  spent  the  day  laying  bricks 
or  selling  goods  behind  a  counter;  but  he  perked 
up  when  he  beheld  a  fairy  in  pink  tights  who 
looked  very  much  like  a  coryphee  in  the  first  row 
of  "The  Girly  Girl." 

"Is  this  a  roof  garden?"  asked  Jack,  looking 
about  him  curiously. 

[34] 


"No,  kid,"  replied  the  Fairy,  tapping  him  play 
fully  with  her  spear.  "You  are  in  the  Land  of 
Pleasure,  and  in  yonder  castle  lives  a  horrid 
Giant  called  Ennui,  who  bores  everybody  he 
catches  to  death." 

Jack  put  on  a  brave  face  and  lighted  a  ciga 
rette.  "Has  he  ever  caught  you,  little  one?"  he 
asked. 

"No,"  she  laughed,  "but  I'm  knocking  wood. 
Fairies  don't  get  bored  until  they  grow  old,  or 
at  least  middle-aged." 

"It's  a  wonder,"  said  Jack,  "that  the  Giant 
doesn't  bore  himself  to  death  some  day." 

"He  might,"  said  the  Fairy,  "if  it  were  not  for 
his  wonderful  talking  harp,  which  keeps  harping 
upon  Socialism,  and  the  single  tax,  and  the  rights 
of  labor,  and  a  lot  of  other  mush ;  but  you  see  it 
keeps  Ennui  stirred  up,  so  that  he  is  never  bored 
entirely  stiff." 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  "me  for  that  harp,  if  I  die 
for  it !"  And  thanking  Polly  Twinkletoes  for  her 
information,  and  promising  to  buy  her  a  supper 
when  he  got  his  next  allowance,  he  sauntered 
toward  the  castle.  As  he  paused  before  the  great 
gate  it  was  opened  suddenly  by  a  most  unpleasant 
looking  giantess. 

"Ho !  ho !"  she  cried,  seizing  Jack  by  the  arm, 
"you're  the  young  scamp  who  sold  me  that  light 
ning  cleaner  last  week.  I'll  just  keep  you  till 

[351 


you  take  the  spots  out  of  my  husband's  Sunday 
pants.  If  you  don't,  he'll  knock  the  spots  out 
of 


III 

While  the  Giantess  spoke  she  dragged  Jack 
into  the  castle.  "Into  this  wardrobe,"  said  she? 
"and  mind  you  don't  make  the  smallest  noise,  or 
my  man  will  wring  your  neck.  He  takes  a  nap 
after  dinner,  and  then  you'll  have  a  chance  to 
demonstrate  that  grease-eradicator  you  sold  me 
last  week." 

The  wardrobe  was  as  big  as  Jack's  yacht,  and 
the  key-hole  as  big  as  a  barrel,  so  the  boy  could 
see  everything  that  took  place  without.  Pres 
ently  the  castle  was  shaken  as  if  by  an  earthquake, 
and  a  great  voice  roared:  "Wife!  wife!  I  smell 
gasoline  !" 

Jack  trembled,  remembering  that  in  tinkering 
around  his  car  that  morning  he  had  spilled  gas 
on  his  clothes. 

"Be  quiet!"  replied  the  Giantess.  "It's  only 
the  lightning-cleaner  which  that  scamp  of  a  ped 
dler  sold  me  the  other  day." 

The  Giant  ate  a  couple  of  sheep  ;  then,  pushing 
his  plate  away,  he  called  for  his  talking  harp. 
And  while  he  smoked,  the  harp  rattled  off  a  long 
string  of  stuff  about  the  equal  liability  of  all  men 
to  labor,  the  abolition  of  the  right  of  inheritance, 
and  kindred  things.  Jack  resolved  that  when  he 

[36] 


got  hold  of  the  harp  he  would  serve  it  at  a  for 
mal  dinner,  under  a  great  silver  cover.  What  a 
sensation  it  would  cause  among  his  guests  when  it 
began  to  sing  its  little  song  about  the  abolition 
of  the  right  of  inheritance ! 

In  a  short  time  the  Giant  fell  asleep,  for  the 
harp,  like  many  reformers,  became  wearisome 
through  exaggeration  of  statement.  Jack  slipped 
from  the  wardrobe,  seized  the  harp,  and  ran  out 
of  the  castle. 

"Master!  Master!"  cried  the  music-maker. 
"Wake  up!  We  are  betrayed!" 

Glancing  back,  Jack  saw  the  Giant  striding 
after  him,  and  gave  himself  up  for  lost;  but  at 
that  moment  he  heard  his  name  called,  and  he 
saw  the  Fairy,  Polly  Twinkletoes,  beckoning  to 
him  from  a  taxicab.  Jack  sprang  into  the  ma 
chine  and  they  reached  the  beanstalk  a  hundred 
yards  ahead  of  the  giant.  Down  the  stalk  they 
slipped  and  dropped,  the  Giant  lumbering  after. 
Once  at  the  bottom,  Jack  ran  to  the  garage  and 
got  out  his  man-killer,  and  when  the  Giant 
reached  ground  he  was  knocked,  as  Jack  had 
promised,  into  the  middle  of  the  proximate  month. 

Our  hero  married  the  Fairy,  much  against  his 
mother's  wishes;  she  knew  her  son  all  too  well, 
and  she  felt  certain  that  she  should  soon  come  to 
know  Polly  as  well,  and  as  unfavorably.  Things 
turned  out  no  better  than  she  had  expected. 

[37] 


After  a  month  of  incompatibility,  and  worse, 
Polly  consented  to  a  divorce  in  consideration  of 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  they  all  lived 
happily  ever  afterward. 


[38] 


A  LINE-O'-TYPE  OR  TWO 


'Fay  ce  que  vouldras." 


"FAY  CE  QUE  VOULDRAS." 

J~\O  what  thou  wilt.    Long  known  to  fame 
V  ^X  That  ancient  motto  of  Theleme. 
To  this  our  abbey  hither  bring, 
Wisdom  or  wit,  thine  offering, 
Or  low  or  lofty  be  thine  aim. 

Here  is  no  virtue  in  a  name, 

But  all  are  free  to  play  the  game. 

Here,  welcome  as  the  flow'rs  of  Spring, 
Do  what  thou  wilt. 

Each  in  these  halls  a  place  may  claim, 
And  is,  if  sad,  alone  to  blame. 

Kick  up  thy  heels  and  dance  and  sing — 
.To  any  wild  conceit  give  wing — 
Be  fool  or  sage,  'tis  all  the  same — 

Do  what  thou  wilt. 

THAT  was  an  amusing  tale  of  the  man  who 
complained  of  injuries  resulting  from  a  loaded 
seegar.  He  knew  when  he  smoked  it  that  it  was 
a  trick  weed,  and  knew  that  it  would  explode,  but 
he  "didn't  know  when."  He  reminds  us  very 
Strongly  of  a  parlor  bolshevist. 

[39] 


"MAN,"  as  they  sing  in  "Princess  Ida/'  "is  na 
ture's  sole  mistake."  And  he  never  appears  more 
of  a  rummy  than  when  some  woman  kills  herself 
for  him,  in  his  embarrassed  presence.  His  first 
thought  is  always  of  himself. 

A  HISTORY  exam  in  a  public  school  contains  this 
delightful  information:  "Patrick  Henry  said,  'I 
rejoice  that  I  have  but  one  country  to  live  for.'  ' 

TIME  travels  in  divers  paces  with  divers  per 
sons.  There  are  some  who,  like  a  certain  capable 
rounder,  lately  departed,  have  time  to  manage  a 
large  business,  maintain  two  or  more  domestic 
establishments,  razz,  jazz,  get  drunk,  and  fight; 
while  others  of  us  cannot  find  time  in  the  four 
and  twenty  hours  to  do  half  the  things  we  wish 
to  achieve.  Although  your  orator  has  nothing 
to  do  but  "write  a  few  headlines  and  go  home," 
as  Old  Bill  Byrne  says,  night  overtakes  him  with 
half  his  chores  undone.  Time  gallops  withal. 

"THEY  know  what  they  like." 

There  are  exceptions.  The  author  of  "Set 
Down  in  Malice"  mentions  a  number,  the  most 
conspicuous  being  Ernest  Newman.  And  we  re 
call  an  exception,  Mr.  Jimmie  Whittaker,  mer 
riest  of  critics,  who  was  so  far  from  knowing  what 
he  liked  that  he  adopted  the  plan,  in  considering 
the  Symphony  concerts,  of  praising  the  even  num- 

[40] 


bers  one  week  and  damning  the  even  numbers  the 
following  week. 

LIKE  Ernest  Newman,  we  shall  never  again 
hear  the  Chopin  Funeral  March  without  being  re 
minded  of  Mr.  Sidgwick's  summary:  "Most  fu 
neral  marches  seem  to  cheer  up  in  the  middle  and 
become  gloomy  again.  I  suppose  the  idea  is,  ( i ) 
the  poor  old  boy's  dead;  (2)  well,  after  all,  he's 
probably  gone  to  heaven;  (3)  still,  anyhow,  the 
poor  old  boy's  dead." 

OUR  readers,  we  swear,  know  everything.  One 
of  them  writes  from  La  Crosse  that  Debussy's 
"Canope"  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  planet  Ca- 
nopus,  but  refers  to  the  ancient  Egyptian  city  of 
that  name.  Mebbe  so  (we  should  like  proof  of 
it),  but  what  of  it? — as  Nero  remarked  when 
they  told  him  Rome  was  afire.  The  Debussy 
music  does  as  well  for  the  star  as  for  the  city. 
It  is  ethereal,  far  away,  and  it  leaves  off  in  mid 
air.  There  is  a  passage  in  "Orpheus  and  Eury- 
dice"  which  is  wedded  to  words  expressing  sor 
row;  but,  as  has  been  pointed  out,  the  music 
would  go  as  well  or  better  with  words  expressing 
joy. 

"LINCOLN/'  observed  Old  Bill  Byrne,  inserting 
a  meditative  pencil  in  the  grinder,  "said  you  can 
fool  all  the  people  some  of  the  time.  But  that 

[41] 


Was  in  the  sixties,  before  the  Colyum  had  devel 
oped  a  bunch  of  lynx-eyed,  trigger-brained,  hawk- 
swooping,  owl-pouncing  fans  that  nobody  can  fool 
for  a  holy  minute." 

FISHING  for  errors  in  a  proof-room  is  like  fish 
ing  for  trout :  the  big  ones  always  get  away.  Or, 
as  Old  Bill  Byrne  puts  it,  while  you're  fishing  for 
a  minnow  a  whale  comes  up  and  bites  you  in  the 
leg. 

WHENE'ER  we  take  our  walks  abroad  we  meet 
acquaintances  who  view  with  alarm  the  immediate 
future  of  the  self-styled  human  race;  but  we  find 
ourself  unable  to  share  their  apprehension.  We 
do  not  worry  about  lead,  or  iron,  or  any  other  ele 
ment.  And  human  nature  is  elemental.  You 
can  flatten  it,  as  in  Russia;  you  can  bend,  and 
twist,  and  pound  it  into  various  forms,  but  you 
cannot  decompose  it.  And  so  the  "new  order," 
while  perhaps  an  improvement  on  the  old,  will  not 
be  so  very  different.  Britannia  will  go  on  ruling 
the  waves,  and  Columbia,  not  Utopia,  will  be 
the  gem  of  the  ocean. 

"WOMAN'S  Club  Will  Hear  Dr.  Ng  Poon 
Chew." — Minneapolis  News. 

We  believe  this  is  a  libel  on  Dr.  Poon. 
[42] 


THE  Greek  drachma  is  reported  to  be  in  a  bad 
way.  Perhaps  a  Drachma  League  could  uplift  it 
and  tide  it  over  the  crisis. 

THE  DELIRIOUS  CRITIC. 

[From  the  Sheridan,  Wyo.,  Enterprise.] 

Replete  with  fine  etherially  beautiful  melody 
and  graceful  embellishments,  it  represents  Moz 
art  at  his  best,  expressing  in  a  form  as  clear  and 
finely  finished  as  a  delicate  ivory  carving  that 
mood  of  restful,  sunny,  impersonal  optimism 
which  is  the  essence  of  most  of  his  musical  crea 
tions.  It  is  like  some  finely  wrought  Greek  idyl, 
the  apotheosis  of  the  pastoral,  perfect  in  detail, 
without  apparent  effort,  gently,  tenderly  emotional, 
without  a  trace  of  passionate  intensity  or  rest 
less  agitation,  innocent  and  depending,  as  a  mere 
babe.  It  is  the  mood  of  a  bright,  cloudless  day 
on  the  upland  pastures,  where  happy  shepherds 
watch  their  peaceful  flocks,  untroubled  by  the 
storm  and  stress  of  our  modern  life,  a  mood  so 
foreign  to  the  hearts  and  environment  of  most 
present  day  human  beings,  that  it  is  rarely  under 
stood  by  player  or  hearer,  and  still  more  rarely 
enjoyed.  It  seems  flat  and  insipid  as  tepid  water 
to  the  fevered  lips  of  the  young  passion-driven, 
ambition-goaded  soul  in  its  first  stormy  period  of 
struggle  and  achievement;  but  later,  it  is  wel 
comed  as  the  answer  to  that  inarticulate,  but  ever 

[43] 


increasingly   frequent,   sign  for  peace   and  tran 
quil  beauty. 

SOMEWHERE   IN  THE  MICHIGAN  WOODS. 

Sir:  Last  night  I  disturbed  the  family  cata- 
wollapus — nee  Irish — with,  "Are  you  asleep, 
Maggie?"  "Yis,  sor."  'Too  bad,  Maggie;  the 
northern  lights  are  out,  and  you  ought  to  see 
them."  "I'm  sorry,  sor,  but  I'm  sure  I  filled 
them  all  this  morning."  What  I  intended  to  say 
was  that  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  christening 
a  perfectly  good  he-pointer  pup  Jet  Wimp.  Hope 
it  is  not  lese  majeste  against  the  revered  president 
of  the  Immortals. 

SALVILINUS  FONTANALIS. 

A  SHEBOYGAN  merchant  announces  a  display  of 
"what  Dame  Nature  has  decreed  women  shall 
wear  this  fall  and  winter." 

IN  considering  additions  to  the  Academy  of  Im 
mortals  shall  Anna  Quaintance  be  forgot?  She 
lives  in  Springfield. 

A  BOX-OFFICE  man  has  won  the  politeness  prize. 
Topsy-turvy  world,  did  you  say? 

WE  lamp  by  the  rural  correspondence  that  Mrs. 
Alfred  Snow  of  Chili,  Wis.,  is  on  her  way  to  Bis 
marck,  N.  D.  It  is  suggested  that  she  detour  to 
Hot  Springs  and  warm  up  a  bit. 

[44] 


BLAKE  COMES  BACK. 

Little  Ford,  who  made  thee? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  gas  and  bade  thee  speed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 
Gave  thee  cushions  hard  and  tight, 
Bumpy  tires  small  and  white; 
Gave  thee  such  a  raucous  voice, 
Making  all  the  deaf  rejoice? 

Little  Ford,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 

Little  Ford,  I'll  tell  thee, 
Little  Ford,  I'll  tell  thee. 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
Henry  Ford,  the  very  same. 
He  is  meek  and  he  is  mild, 
Is  pacific  as  a  child. 
He  a  child  and  thou  a  Ford, 
You  are  called  the  same  word. 

Little  Ford,  God  bless  thee! 

Little  Ford,  God  bless  thee! 

B.  L. 

EVERYBODY  CAME  IN  A  FORD. 

[From  the  Milwaukee  Sentinel.] 

Miss  Evelyn  Shallow,  daughter  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Peter  Shallow,  and  Raymond  Bridger,  both 
of  Little  River,  were  married  recently  at  Oconto. 

[45] 


CONSIDERING  the  pictorial  advertisements,  A. 
B.  Walkley  finds  that  that  triumphant  figure  of 
the  active,  bustling  world,  the  business  man,  di 
vides  his  day  somewhat  as  follows:  He  begins 
with  his  toilet,  which  seems  to  center  in  or  near 
his  chin,  which  is  prominent,  square,  firm,  and 
smooth;  even  the  rich,  velvety  lather  cannot  dis 
guise  it.  The  business  man  collects  safety  razors; 
he  collects  collars,  too.  He  seems  to  be  in  the 
habit  of  calling  in  his  friends  to  see  how  per 
fectly  his  shirt  fits  at  the  neck.  Once  dressed,  he 
goes  to  his  office  and  is  to  be  found  at  an  enor 
mous  desk  bristling  with  patent  devices,  pleas 
antly  gossiping  with  another  business  man.  You 
next  find  him  in  evening  dress  at  the  dinner  table, 
beaming  at  the  waiter  who  has  brought  him  his 
favorite  sauce.  Lastly  you  have  a  glimpse  of 
him  in  pajamas,  discoursing  with  several  other 
business  men  in  pajamas,  all  sitting  cross-legged 
and  smoking  enormous  cigars.  This  is  the  end 
of  a  perfect  business  day. 

MR.  KIPLING  has  obtained  an  injunction  and 
damages  because  a  medicine  company  used  a 
stanza  of  his  "If"  to  boost  its  pills.  While  we  do 
not  think  much  of  the  verses,  we  are  glad  the  pub 
lic  is  reminded  that  the  little  things  which  a  poet 
dashes  off  are  as  much  private  property  as  a  bot 
tle  of  pills  or  a  washing  machine. 

[46] 


ANIMALS  in  a  new  Noah's  Ark  are  made  cor 
rectly  to  the  scale  designed  by  a  London  artist 
who  studies  the  beasts  in  the  Zoo.  Would  you 
buy  such  an  ark  for  a  child?  Neither  would  we. 

SOCIAL  nuances  are  indicated  by  a  farmer  not 
far  from  Chicago  in  his  use  of  table  coverings, 
as  follows:  For  the  family,  oil  cloth;  for  the 
school  teacher,  turkey  red;  for  the  piano  tuner, 
white  damask. 


SHE  SAT  APART. 


K 


Sir:  We  were  talking  across  the  aisle. 
Presently  the  girl  who  sat  alone  leaned  over  and 
said:  "You  and  the  lady  take  this  seat.  I'm  not 
together."  A.  H.  H.  A. 

THE  G.  P.  P. 

Sir:  What  is  the  gadder's  pet  peeve?  Mine  is 
to  be  aroused  by  the  hotel  maid  who  jiggles 
the  doorknob  at  8  a.m.,  when  the  little  indicator 
shows  the  room  is  still  locked  from  the  inside. 
It  happened  to  me  to-day  at  the  Blackhawk  in 
Davenport.  W.  S. 

BEG  YOUR  PARDON. 

W.  S.  writes,  after  a  long  session  with  his  boss, 
that  the  recent  announcement  he  was  disturbed  at 
8  o'clock  by  the  rattling  of  his  hotel  door  was  a 

[47] 


typographical  error  committed  in  this  office  (sic), 
the  hour  as  stated  by  him  really  having  been  6.30 
a.m. 

THE  manager  of  the  Hotel  Pomeroy,  Barba 
dos,  W.  I.,  warns:  "No  cigarettes  or  cocktails 
served  to  married  ladies  without  husband's  con 
sent." 

IT  is  years  since  we  read  "John  Halifax, 
Gentleman,"  but  we  must  dust  off  the  volume. 
The  Japanese  translation  has  a  row  of  asterisks 
and  the  editor's  explanation:  "At  this  point  he 
asked  her  to  marry  him." 

GADDERS  have  many  grievances,  and  one  of 
them  is  the  small-town  grapefruit.  One  traveler 
offers  the  stopper  of  a  silver  flask  for  an  authentic 
instance  of  a  grapefruit  served  without  half  of 
the  tough  interior  thrown  in  for  good  measure. 

IF  Jedge  Landis  has  time  to  attend  to  another 
job,  a  great  many  people  would  like  to  see  him 
take  hold  of  the  Senate  and  establish  in  it  the  con 
fidence  of  the  public.  It  would  be  a  tougher  job 
than  baseball  reorganization,  but  it  is  thought  he 
could  swing  it. 

YES? 

You  may  fancy  it  is  easy, 

When  the  world  is  fighting  drunk, 
To  compile  a  colyum  wheezy 

[48] 


With  a  lot  of  airy  junk — 
To  maintain  a  mental  quiet 

And  a  philosophic  ca'm, 
And  to  give,  amid  the  riot, 

Not  a  dam. 

You  may  think  it  is  no  trick  to 

Can  the  topic  militaire, 
And  determinedly  stick  to 

Jape  and  jingle  light  as  air — 
To  be  pertly  paragraphic 

And  to  jollity  inclined, 
In  an  evenly  seraphic 

State  of  mind. 

When  our  anger  justified  is, 

And  the  nation's  on  the  brink ; 
When  Herr  Dernburg — durn  his  hide  !- 

To  be  chased  across  the  drink  ; 
When  the  cabinet  is  meeting, 

And  the  ultimatums  fly, 
And  the  tom-toms  are  a-beating 

A  defy; 

When  it's  raining  gall  and  bitters — 
You  may  think  it  is  a  pipe 

To  erect  a  Tower  of  Titters 
With  a  lot  of  lines  o'  type, 

To  be  whimsical  and  wheezy, 

,,  „     ,   fquip  and  quirk  and  quiz, 
run  or  w      .. .  . 

I  quibbles  queer  and  quaint. 

Do  you  fancy  that  is  easy? 

Weii— it  J1S: , 

|am  t. 

[49] 


THE  dissolution  of  Farmer  Pierson,  of  Prince 
ton,  111.,  from  rough-on-rats  administered,  it  is 
charged,  by  his  wife  and  her  gentleman  friend, 
is  a  murder  case  that  reminds  us  of  New  England, 
where  that  variety  of  triangle  reaches  stages  of 
grewsomeness  surpassed  only  by  "The  Love  of 
Three  Kings."  How  often,  in  our  delirious  re 
porter  days,  did  we  journey  to  some  remote  vil 
lage  in  Vermont  or  New  Hampshire,  to  inquire 
into  the  passing  of  an  honest  agriculturist  whose 
wife,  assisted  by  the  hired  man,  had  spiced  his 
biscuits  with  arsenic  or  strychnine. 

ON  the  menu  of  the  Woman's  City  Club: 
"Scrambled  Brains."  Do  you  wonder,  my  dear? 

WE  quite  understand  that  if  Mr.  Moiseiwitsch 
is  to  establish  himself  with  the  public  he  must 
play  old  stuff,  even  such  dreadful  things  as  the 
Mozart-Liszt  "Don  Giovanni."  It  is  with 
Chopin  valses  and  Liszt  rhapsodies  that  a  pianist 
plays  an  audience  into  a  hall,  but  he  should  put  on 
some  stuff  to  play  the  audience  out  with.  Under 
this  arrangement  those  of  us  who  have  heard 
Chopin's  Fantasie  as.  often  as  we  can  endure  may 
come  late,  while  those  who  do  not  "understand" 
Debussy,  Albeniz,  and  other  moderns  may  leave 
early.  The  old  stuff  is  just  as  good  to-day  as  it 
was  twenty  years  ago,  but  some  of  us  ancients 
have  got  past  that  stage  of  musical  development. 

[50] 


THE  MOST  EMBARRASSING  MOMENT. 

Sir :  This  story  was  related  to  me  by  Modeste 
Mignon,  who  hesitates  to  give  it  to  the  "Embar 
rassing  Moments"  editor: 

"Going  down  Michigan  avenue  one  windy  day, 
I  stopped  to  fix  my  stocking,  which  had  come  un 
fastened.  Just  as  my  hands  were  both  engaged 
a  gust  of  wind  lifted  one  of  my  hair  tabs  and  ex 
posed  almost  the  whole  of  my  left  ear.  I  was 
never  so  embarrassed  in  my  life." 

BALLYMOONEY. 

THE  ENRAPTURED  REPORTER. 

[From    the    White    Salmon    Enterprise.] 

The  bridal  couple  stood  under  festoons  of 
Washington  holly,  and  in  front  of  a  circling  hedge 
of  flowering  plants,  whose  delicate  pink  blossoms 
gave  out  a  faint  echo  of  the  keynote  of  the  bride's 
ensemble. 


EVERYTHING  CONSIDERED,  THE  COMMA  IS 
THE  MOST  USEFUL  MARK  OF 
PUNCTUATION. 

[From  the  El  Paso  Journal.] 

Prof.  Bone,  head  of  the  rural  school  depart 
ment  of  the  Normal  University,  gave  an  address 
to  the  parents  and  teachers  of  Eureka,  Saturday 
evening. 


GALESBURG'S  Hotel  Custer  has  sprung  a  new 
one  on  the  gadders.  Bub  reports  that,  instead  of 
the  conventional  "Clerk  on  Duty,  Mr.  Rae,"  the 
card  reads:  "Greeter,  Rudie  Hawks." 

A  COMMUNICATION  to  La  Follette's  Magazine 
is  signed  by  W.E.T.S.  Nurse,  N.  Y.  City.  What 
is  the  "S"  for? 

BETTER  LATE  THAN  NEVER. 

[From  the  Walsh  County,  N.  D.,  Record.] 

A  quiet  wedding  occurred  Friday,  when 
Francis  A.  Tardy  of  Bemidji,  Minn.,  was  united 
in  marriage  to  Miss  Leeva  Ness. 

THE  ENRAPTURED  REPORTER;  OR,  IT 
INDEED  WAS. 

[From  the  St.  Andrew's  Bay,  Fla.,  News.] 

Mrs.  Paddock,  Mrs.  Russell,  Mrs.  Templeton, 
and  Mrs.  Cottingham,  all  of  whom  are  visiting 
Mrs.  Turesdel,  the  hostess  of  Monday's  picnic, 
were  keenly  appreciative  of  such  bits  of  beauty  as 
the  day  revealed.  Florida,  herself  a  hostess  of 
lavish  hospitality,  seemed  to  be  more  radiant,  and 
when  night  came  and  the  boat  pulled  her  way  out 
into  the  bay,  still  another  surprise  awaited  the 
northerners.  In  the  wake  of  the  boat  shimmered 
a  thousand,  yea,  a  million  jewels.  The  little 
waves  crested  with  opals  and  pearls.  The 

[52] 


weirdly  beautiful  phenomena  filled  the  visitors 
with  delighted  wonder  as  they  leaned  over  the 
water  and  watched  the  flashing  colors  born  of  the 
night.  As  the  lights  of  our  city  hove  into  view, 
the  voice  of  Mrs.  Templeton,  a  voice  marvelously 
sweet,  sang  "The  End  of  a  Perfect  Day,"  as  in 
deed  it  was. 

A  "MASQUERADE  pie  supper"  was  given  in 
Paris,  111.,  last  week.  The  kind  of  pie  used  is 
not  mentioned,  but  it  must  have  been  either  cran 
berry  or  sweet  potato. 

CONTRETEMPS  IN  WYOMING  SOCIETY. 

[From  the  Sheridan  Post.] 

No  finer  dressed  party  of  men  and  women  ever 
assembled  together  in  this  city  than  those  who 
took  part  in  the  ball  given  by  the  bachelors  of 
Sheridan  to  their  married  friends.  Many  of  the 
costumes  deserve  mention,  but  the  Post  man  is 
not  capable  of  describing  them  properly.  The 
supper  and  refreshments  were  of  the  kind  that  all 
appreciated,  and  was  served  at  just  the  right  time 
by  obliging  waiters,  who  seemed  to  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  times  and  make  every  one  feel  satis 
fied.  Only  one  deplorable  thing  transpired  at 
the  dance,  and  it  was  nobody's  fault.  Dr.  Newell 
had  the  misfortune  to  lean  too  far  forward  when 
bowing  to  a  lady  and  tear  his  pants  across  the 

[53] 


seams.  He  had  filled  his  program,  and  had  a 
beautiful  partner  for  each  number,  but  he  had  to 
back  off  and  sit  down. 

MERCIFULLY  SEPARATED. 

Sir:  A  fellow-gadder  is  sitting  opposite  me 
at  this  writing  table.  It  seems  that  some  old 
friend  of  his  in  Texas,  out  of  work,  funds,  and 
food,  has  written  him  for  aid,  and  he  is  replying: 
"Glad  you're  so  far  away,  so  we  sha'n't  see  each 
other  starve  to  death."  SIM  NIC. 

FREEDOM  shrieked  when  Venizelos  fell.  But 
Freedom  has  grown  old  and  hysterical,  and 
shrieks  on  very  little  occasion. 

THE  attitude  of  the  Greeks  toward  "that  fine 
democrat  Venizelos"  reminds  our  learned  con 
temporary  the  Journal  of  the  explanation  given 
by  the  ancient  Athenian  who  voted  against 
Aristides:  he  was  tired  of  hearing  him  called  "the 
Just."  It  is  an  entirely  human  sentiment,  one  of 
the  few  that  justify  the  term  "human  race."  It 
swept  away  Woodrow  the  Idealist,  and  all  the 
other  issues  that  the  parties  set  up.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  saturation  point,  the  race  would  be 
in  danger  of  becoming  inhuman. 

THE  allies  quarreled  among  themselves  during 
the  war,  and  have  been  quarreling  ever  since.  A 

[54] 


world  war  and  a  world  peace  are  much  too  big 
jobs  for  any  set  of  human  heads. 

ACADEMY  NOTES. 

Sir:  If  there  is  a  school  of  expression  con 
nected  with  the  Academy  I  nominate  for  head  of 
it  Elizabeth  Letzkuss,  principal  of  the  Greene 
school,  Chicago.  CALCITROSUS. 

MEMBERS  of  the  Academy  will  be  pleased  to 
know  that  their  fellow-Immortal,  Mr.  Gus  Wog, 
was  elected  in  North  Dakota. 

WE  regret  to  learn  that  one  of  our  Immortals, 
Mr.  Tinder  Tweed,  of  Harlan,  Ky.,  has  been  in 
dicted  for  shooting  on  the  highway. 

TO  MARY  GARDEN— WITH  A  POSTSCRIPT. 

So  wonderful  your  art,  if  you  preferred 
Drayma  to  opry,  you'd  be  all  the  mustard  ; 
For  you  (ecstatic  pressmen  have  averred) 
Have  Sarah  Bernhardt  larruped  to  a  custard. 

So  marvelous  your  voice,  too,  if  you  cared 
With  turns  and  trills  and  tra-la-las  to  dazzle, 
You'd  have  (enraptured  critics  have  declared) 
All  other  singers  beaten  to  a  frazzle. 

So  eloquent  your  legs,  were  it  your  whim 
To  caper  nimbly  in  a  classic  measure, 
Terpsichore   (entranced  reviewers  hymn) 
Would  swoon  upon  her  lyre  for  very  pleasure. 

[55] 


If  there  be  aught  you  cannot  do,  'twould  seem 
The  world  has  yet  that  something  to  discover. 
One  has  to  hand  it  to  you.    You're  a  scream. 
And  'tis  a  joy  to  watch  you  put  it  over. 

Postscriptum. 

If  there  be  any  test  you  can't  survive, 
The  present  test  will  mean  your  crucifying; 
But  I  am  laying  odds  of  eight  to  five 
That  you'll  come  thro*  with  all  your  colors  flying. 

IT  is  chiefly  a  matter  of  temperament.  And 
more  impudence  and  assurance  is  required  to 
crack  a  safe  or  burglarize  a  dwelling  than  to 
cancel  a  shipment  of  goods  in  order  to  avoid  a 
loss ;  but  one  is  as  honest  a  deed  as  the  other.  Or 
it  would  be  better  to  say  that  one  is  as  poor 
policy  as  the  other.  For  it  is  not  claimed  that 
man  is  an  honest  animal ;  it  is  merely  agreed  that 
honesty  profits  him  most  in  the  long  run. 

ACADEMY  JOTTINGS. 

J.  P.  W. :  "I  present  Roley  Akers  of  Boone, 
la.,  as  director  of  the  back-to-the-farm  move 
ment." 

C.  M.  V. :  "For  librarian  to  the  Immortals  I 
nominate  Mrs.  Bessie  Hermann  Twaddle,  who 
has  resigned  a  similar  position  in  Tulare  county, 
California." 

[56] 


THIS  world  cannot  be  operated  on  a  senti 
mental  basis.  The  experiment  has  been  made  on 
a  small  scale,  and  it  has  always  failed;  on  a  large 
scale  it  would  only  fail  more  magnificently. 
People  who  are  naturally  kind  of  heart,  and  of  less 
than  average  selfishness,  wish  that  the  impossible 
might  be  compassed,  but,  unless  they  are  half 
witted,  or  are  paid  agitators,  they  recognize  that 
the  impossible  is  well  named.  Self-interest  is  the 
core  of  human  nature,  and  before  that  core  could 
be  appreciably  modified,  if  ever,  the  supply  of 
heat  from  the  sun  would  be  so  reduced  that  the 
noblest  enthusiasm  would  be  chilled.  The  ut 
most  achievable  in  this  sad  world  is  an  en 
lightened  self-interest.  This  we  expect  of  the 
United  States  when  the  peace  makers  gather. 
Anything  more  selfish  would  be  a  reproach  to  our 
professed  principles.  Anything  less  selfish 
would  be  a  reproach  to  our  intelligence. 

I  SHOT  AN  ARROW  INTO  THE  AIR,  IT  WENT 

RIGHT  THROUGH  MISS  BURROUGHS' 

HAIR. 

[From  the  Dallas  Bulletin.] 

We  quote  Miss  Burroughs:  "I  don't  think 
B.  L.  T.  is  so  good  any  more — it  takes  an  intelli 
gent  person  to  comprehend  his  meaning  half  the 
time." 

[57] 


THE  world  is  running  short  of  carbonic  acid, 
the  British  Association  is  told  by  Prof.  Petrie. 
"The  decomposition  of  a  few  more  inches  of  sili 
cates  over  the  globe  will  exhaust  the  minute  frac 
tion  of  carbonic  acid  that  still  remains,  and  life 
will  then  become  impossible."  But  cheer  up. 
The  Boston  Herald  assures  us  that  "there  is  no 
immediate  cause  of  alarm."  Nevertheless  we 
are  disturbed.  We  had  figured  on  the  sun  grow 
ing  cold,  but  if  we  are  to  run  out  of  carbonic  acid 
before  the  sun  winds  up  its  affairs,  a  little  worry 
will  not  be  amiss.  However,  everybody  will  be 
crazy  as  a  hatter  before  long,  so  what  does  it 
matter?  Ten  years  ago  Forbes  Winslow  wrote, 
after  studying  the  human  race  and  the  lunacy  sta 
tistics  of  a  century:  "I  have  no  hesitation  in 
stating  that  the  human  race  has  degenerated  and 
is  still  progressing  in  a  downward  direction.  We 
are  gradually  approaching,  with  the  decadence  of 
youth,  a  near  proximity  to  a  nation  of  madmen." 

AS  JOYCE  KILMER  MIGHT  HAVE  SAID. 

[Kit  Morley  in  the  New  York  Evening  Post.] 

"The  Chicago  Tribune  owns  forests  of  pulp  ^vood!' 

— Full-page  advt. 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 
Aught  lovely  as  a  pulpwood  tree. 

A  tree  that  grows  through  sunny  noons 
To  furnish  sporting  page  cartoons. 

[58] 


A  tree  whose  fibre  and  whose  pith 
Will  soon  be  Gumps  by  Sidney  Smith, 

And  make  to  smile  and  eke  ha  ha!  go 
The  genial  people  of  Chicago. 

A  tree  whose  grace,  toward  heaven  rising, 
Men  macerate  for  advertising — 

A  tree  that  lifts  her  arms  and  laughs 

To  be  made  into  paragraphs.  .  .  . 

- 

How  enviable  is  that  tree 

That's  growing  pulp  for  B.  L.  T. 

"REMAKE  the  World"  is  a  large  order — too 
large  for  statesmen.  Two  lovers  underneath  the 
Bough  may  remake  the  world,  remold  it  nearer 
to  the  heart's  desire — or  come  as  near  to  it  as 
possible;  but  not  a  gathering  of  political  gray- 
beards.  For  better  or  worse  the  world  is  made; 
all  we  can  do  is  modify  it  here  and  there. 

THE  SECOND  POST 

[A  Swedish  lady  seeks  congenial  employment.] 

Madam:  A  few  days  ago  I  were  happy 
enough  to  meet  Mrs.  J.  Hansley  and  she  told  me 
that  you  migh  possible  want  to  engauge  a  lady  to 
work  for  you.  I  am  swede,  in  prime  of  like,  in 
superb  health,  queite  of  habits,  and  can  handle  a 
ordinary  house.  I  can  give  references  as  to  char- 

[59] 


acktar.  If  you  want  me  would  you  kindly  write 
and  state  wadges.  Or  if  you  don't,  would  you 
do  a  stranger  a  favour  and  put  me  in  thuch  wit 
any  friend  that  want  help.  I  hold  a  very  good 
situation  in  a  way,  but  I  am  made  to  eat  in  the 
kitchen  and  made  to  feel  in  every  way  that  I  am 
a  inferior.  I  dont  like  that.  I  dont  want  a 
situation  of  that  kind.  They  are  kind  to  me 
most  sertainly  in  a  way,  but  as  I  jused  to  be  kind 
to  my  favorite  saddle  horse.  I  dont  want  that 
kind  of  soft  soap.  Yours  very  respecktfully,  etc. 

A  WISCONSIN  PARABLE. 

[From  the  Fort  Atkinson  Union.] 

A  friend  asks  us  why  we  keep  on  pounding  La 
Follette.  He  says  there  is  no  use  pounding  away 
at  a  man  after  he's  dead.  Maybe  we  are  like  the 
man  who  was  whaling  a  dead  dog  that  had  killed 
his  sheep.  "What  are  you  whaling  that  cur 
for?"  said  a  neighbor.  "There  is  no  use  in  that; 
he's  dead."  "Well,"  said  the  man,  "I'll  learn 
him,  damn  him,  that  there  is  punishment  after 
death." 

ANOTHER  way  to  impress  upon  the  world  the 
fact  that  you  have  lived  in  it  is  to  scratch  matches 
on  walls  and  woodwork.  A  banged  door  leaves 
no  record  except  in  the  ear  processes  of  the  per- 

[60] 


sons    sitting    near    the    door,     whereas    match 
scratches  are  creative  work. 

Lives  of  such  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Match-marks  on  the  walls  of  time. 

HE  SHOULD. 

Sir:  Mr.  Treetop,  6  feet  2  inches,  is  a  porter 
at  the  St.  Nicholas  Hotel,  Decatur.  Would  he 
add  anything  to  the  landscape  gardening  sur 
rounding  the  Academy  of  Immortals? 

W.  N.  C. 

WHY  THE  EDITOR  BEAT  IT. 

[From  the  Marengo  Republican-News.] 

Baptist  Church,  7  -.30  p.  m. — Popular 
evening  service.  Subject,  "Fools  and 
Idiots."  A  large  number  are  expected. 

SPEAKING  again  of  "experience  essential  but 
not  necessary,"  it  was  a  gadder  who  observed  to 
a  fellow  traveler  in  the  smoker:  'It  is  not  only 
customary,  but  we  have  been  doing  it  right 
along." 

"EVEN  now,"  remarks  an  editorial  colleague, 
"the  person  who  says  'It  is  F  is  conscious  of  a  pre 
cise  effort  which  exaggerates  the  ego."  No  such 

[61] 


effort  is  made  by  one  of  our  copyreaders,  who 
never  changes  'who'  or  'whom'  in  a  piece  of  tele 
graph  copy;  because,  says  he,  "I  never  know 
which  is  right." 

HERE  IT  IS  AGAIN. 

[From  the  classified  ads.] 

Saleslady,  attractive,  energetic,  ambitious 
hustler.     Selling  experience  essential  but  not 
necessary.     Fred'k  H.  Bartlett  &  Co. 
Her  attractiveness,  perchance,  is  also  essential 
but  not  necessary. 

WE  see  by  the  lith'ry  notes  that  Vance  Thomp 
son  has  published  another  book.  Probably  we 
told  you  about  the  farmer  in  Queechee  at  whose 
house  Vance  boarded  one  summer.  "He  told  me 
he  was  going  to  do  a  lot  of  writing,"  said  the 
h.  h.  s.  of  t.  to  us,  "and  got  me  to  hitch  up  and 
drive  over  to  Pittsfield  and  buy  him  a  quart  bottle 
of  ink.  And  dinged  if  he  didn't  give  me  the 
bottle,  unopened,  when  he  went  back  to  town  in 
the  fall." 

AFTER  READING  HARVEY'S  WEEKLY. 

I  love  Colonel  Harvey, 

His  stuff  is  so  warm, 
And  if  you  don't  bite  him 

He'll  do  you  no  harm. 

[62] 


I'll  sit  by  the  fire 

And  feed  him  raw  meat, 
And  Harvey  will  roar  me 

Clear  ofFn  my  feet. 

THE  Nobel  prize  for  the  best  split  infinitive  has 
been  awarded  to  the  framer  of  the  new  adminis 
trative  code  of  the  state  of  Washington,  which 
contains  this: 

"To,  in  case  of  an  emergency  requiring  ex 
penditures  in  excess  of  the  amount  appropriated 
by  the  legislature  for  any  institution  of  the  state, 
state  officer,  or  department  of  the  state  govern 
ment,  and  upon  the  written  request  of  the  govern 
ing  authorities  of  the  institution,  the  state  officer, 
or  the  head  of  the  department,  and  in  case  the 
board  by  a  majority  vote  of  all  its  members  de 
termines  that  the  public  interest  requires  it,  issue 
a  permit  in  writing,"  etc. 

"  WHEN  this  art  reaches  so  high  a  standard 
the  Post  deems  it  a  duty  to  publicly  commend  it.1 
— Edward  A.  Grozier,  Editor  and  Publisher  the 
Boston  Post." 

But  ought  a  Bostonian  to  split  his  infinitives  in 
public?  It  doesn't  seem  decent. 

EVERY  now  and  then  a  suburban  train  falls  to 
pieces,  and  the  trainmen  wonder  why.  "What 
do  you  know  about  that?"  they  say.  "It  was  as 

[63] 


good  as  new  this  morning."  It  never  occurs  to 
them  that  the  slow  but  sure  weakening  of  the 
rolling  stock  is  due  to  Rule  7  in  the  "Instructions 
to  Trainmen,"  which  requires  conductors  and 
brakemen  to  close  coach  doors  as  violently  as 
possible.  Although  not  required  to,  many  pas 
sengers  imitate  the  trainmen.  With  them  it  is  a 
desire  to  make  a  noise  in  the  world.  If  a  man 
cannot  attract  attention  in  the  arts  and  the  pro 
fessions,  a  sure  way  is  to  bang  doors  behind  him. 

DOXOLOGY. 

Praise  Hearst,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow! 
Praise  Hearst,  who  runs  things  here  below. 
Praise  them  who  make  him  manifest — 
Praise  Andy  L.  and  all  the  rest. 

Praise  Hearst  because  the  world  is  round, 
Because  the  seas  with  salt  abound, 
Because  the  water's  always  wet, 
And  constellations  rise  and  set. 

Praise  Hearst  because  the  grass  is  green, 
And  pleasant  flow'rs  in  spring  are  seen ; 
Praise  him  for  morning,  night  and  noon. 
Praise  him  for  stars  and  sun  and  moon. 

Praise  Hearst,  our  nation's  aim  and  end, 
Humanity's  unselfish  friend; 
And  who  remains,  for  all  our  debt, 
A  modest  sweet  white  violet. 

[64] 


WE  like  Schubert's  Unfinished  Symphony, 
Kubla  Khan,  and  many  other  unfinished  things, 
but  we  have  always  let  unfinished  novels  alone — 
unless  you  consider  unfinished  the  yarn  that  UQ" 
finished  for  Stevenson.  And  so  we  are  unable  to 
appreciate  the  periodical  eruptions  of  excitement 
over  "The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood."  Were 
we  to  read  it,  we  dessay  we  should  be  as  nutty 
as  the  Dickens  fans. 

MR.  BASSO,  second  violin  in  the  Minneapolis 
Orchestra,  would  seem  to  have  missed  his  voca 
tion  by  a  few  seats. 

MY  DEAR,  YOU  SHOULD  HAVE  SEEN  FRED! 

[From   the   Milwaukee    Sentinel.] 

In  this  one,  the  orchestra  became  a  troupe  of 
gayly  appareled  ballerinas,  whirling  in  splendid 
abandon,  with  Mr.  Stock  as  premiere. 

ONE  lamps  by  the  advertisements  that  the 
Fokines  are  to  dance  Beethoven's  "Moonshine" 
sonata.  The  hootch-kootch,  as  it  were. 

OFT  IN  THE  STILLY  WISCONSIN 
NIGHT. 

Sir :  California  may  have  the  most  sunshine, 
but  I'll  bet  Wisconsin  has  the  most  moonshine. 

E.  C.  M. 

[65] 


DID  ever  a  presidential  candidate  say  a  few 
kind  words  for  art  and  literature,  intimate  the 
part  they  play  in  the  civilizing  of  a  nation,  and 
promise  to  further  them  by  all  means  in  his 
power,  that  the  people  should  not  sink  deeper  into 
the  quagmire  of  materialism?  Probably  not. 

"HERCULES,  when  only  a  baby,  strangled  two 
servants,"  according  to  a  bright  history  student. 
Nobody  thought  much  about  it  in  those  days,  as 
there  were  plenty  to  be  had. 

ABSOLUTE  zero  in  entertainment  has  been 
achieved.  A  young  woman  recited  or  declaimed 
the  imperishable  Eighteenth  Amendment  in  an 
Evanston  church. 

WITH  Jedge  Landis  at  the  head  of  grand  base 
ball  and  Mary  Garden  at  the  head  of  grand 
opera,  the  future  of  the  greatest  outdoor  and  in 
door  sports  is  temporarily  assured. 

ROME  toddled  before  its  fall. 


[66] 


The  Delectable  River. 

I. DOCTOR  MAYHEW'S  SHOP. 

Stibbs  the  Grocer  zigzagged  like  a  dragon-fly 
about  his  crowded  store.  Within  the  hour  the 
supplies  for  our  woodland  cruise  were  packed  in 
boxes  and  tagged,  and  ready  for  transportation. 
It  was  a  brisk  transaction;  for  Stibbs  it  was  only 
one  incident  in  a  busy  day.  Outside  the  trolley 
clanged,  and  a  Saturday  crowd  footed  the  main 
street  of  the  Canadian  city  by  the  falls  of  the 
Saint  Mary.  It  was  hard  to  realize  that  solitude 
and  a  primal  hush  were  only  a  few  hours  away. 

I  contrasted  the  activity  in  the  store  of  Stibbs 
with  the  drowse  that  hung  over  another  shop  in 
the  North  Country  where,  in  earlier  years,  I  used 
to  buy  my  supplies.  Doctor  Mayhew  kept  the 
shop,  which  flourished  until  a  pushing  Scandi 
navian  set  up  a  more  pretentious  establishment; 
after  which  the  Doctor's  shop  faded  away  like  the 
grin  of  Puss  of  Cheshire.  One  could  not  buy 
groceries  of  the  Doctor  in  a  hurry;  one  had  no 
wish  to.  I  always  allowed  the  forenoon,  as  there 
was  much  foreign  gossip  to  exchange  between 
items,  and  the  world's  doings  to  be  discussed. 
The  Doctor  was  interested  in  the  remotest  sub 
jects.  The  pestilences  of  the  Orient  and  the 
possibility  of  their  spreading  to  our  shores,  and 
eventually  to  the  North  Country,  gave  him  much 

[67] 


concern;  the  court  life  at  St.  James's  and  the 
politics  of  Persia  absorbed  him; — local  matters 
interested  him  not  at  all. 

"Ten  pounds  of  flour?"  ...  The  Doctor 
would  pause,  scoop  in  hand;  then,  abruptly  re 
minded  of  a  bit  of  unfinished  business  at  the  ware 
house,  he  would  leave  the  flour  trembling  in  the 
balance  and  shuffle  off,  while  I  perched  on  the 
counter  and  swung  my  heels,  and  discussed  packs 
with  Ted  Wakeland,  another  pioneer,  who,  spit 
ting  vigorously,  averred  that  packing  grub 
through  the  brush  was  all  right  for  an  Indian,  but 
no  fit  task  for  a  white  man.  Through  the  open 
door  I  could  see  the  gentle  swells  of  the  Big 
Water  washing  along  the  crescent  of  the  beach 
and  heaping  the  sand  in  curious  little  crescent 
ridges.  The  sun  beat  hotly  on  the  board  walk. 
There  were  faint  sounds  in  the  distance,  from  the 
Indian  village  up  the  shore  and  the  fishing  com 
munity  across  the  bay.  Life  in  this  parish  of  the 
Northland  drifted  by  like  the  fleece  of  summer's 
sky. 

"And  three  pounds  of  rice?" 

The  Doctor  was  back  at  the  scales,  and  the 
weighing  proceeded  in  leisurely  and  dignified 
fashion.  Haste,  truly,  were  unseemly.  But  at 
last  the  supplies  were  stowed  in  the  brown  pack, 
there  were  handshakings  all  round,  and  a  word 

[68] 


of  advice  from  old  heads,  and  I  marched  away 
with  a  singing  heart. 

Outfitting  in  the  Doctor's  shop  was  an  event,  a 
ceremonial,  a  thing  to  be  housed  in  memory  along 
with  camps  and  trails. 

II. THE  RIVER. 

He  who  has  known  many  rivers  knows  that 
every  watercourse  has  an  individuality,  which  is 
no  more  to  be  analyzed  than  the  personality  of 
one's  dearest  friend.  Two  rivers  may  flow  al 
most  side  by  side  for  a  hundred  miles,  separated 
only  by  a  range  of  hills,  and  resemble  each  other 
no  more  than  two  women.  You  may  admire  the 
one,  and  grant  it  beauty  and  charm;  but  you  will 
love  the  other,  and  dream  of  it,  and  desire  infinite 
acquaintance  of  it. 

These  differences  are  too  subtle  for  definition. 
Superficially,  two  rivers  in  the  North  Country  are 
unlike  only  in  this  respect,  that  one  has  cut  a  deep 
valley  through  the  hills  and  flows  swiftly  and 
shallowly  to  its  sea,  and  the  other  has  kept  to  the 
plateaus  and  drops  leisurely  by  a  series  of  cas 
cades  and  short  rapids,  separated  by  long  reaches 
of  deep  water.  Otherwise  their  physical  aspects 
coincide.  The  banks  of  archaic  rock  are  covered 
with  a  thin  soil  which  maintains  so  dense  a  tangle 
that  the  axe  must  clear  a  space  for  the  smallest 
camp;  their  overhanging  borders  are  of  cedar  and 

[69] 


alder  and  puckerbush  and  osier;  their  waters  are 
slightly  colored  by  the  juices  of  the  swampland; 
following  lines  of  minimum  resistance,  they 
twist  gently  or  sharply  every  little  way,  and  al 
ways  to  the  voyager's  delight,  for  the  eye  is  un 
prepared  for  a  beautiful  vista,  as  the  ear  for  a 
sudden  and  exquisite  modulation  in  music. 

So  winds  the  Delectable  River — 

"through  hollow  lands  and  hilly  lands" — 
idly  where  the  vale  spreads  out,  quickly  where  the 
hills  close  in;  black  and  mysterious  in  the  deep 
places,  frank  and  golden  in  the  shoal.  In  one 
romantic  open,  where  the  stream  flows  thinly 
over  a  long  stretch  of  sand,  the  bed  is  of  an  al 
most  luminous  amber,  as  if  its  particles  had  im 
prisoned  a  little  of  the  sunlight  that  had  fallen  on 
them  through  the  unnumbered  years. 

The  River  was  somewhat  low  when  I  dipped 
paddle  in  it,  and  the  ooze  at  the  marge  was  a  con 
tinuous  chronicle  of  woodland  life.  Moose  and 
deer,  bear  and  beaver,  mink  and  fisher,  all  the 
creatures  of  the  wild  had  contributed  to  the  nar 
rative.  Even  the  water  had  its  tale :  a  line  of 
bubbles  would  show  that  a  large  animal,  likely  a 
moose,  had  crossed  a  few  minutes  before  our 
canoes  rounded  the  bend.  There  were  glimpses 
of  less  wary  game  :  ducks  and  herons  set  sail  at  the 
last  moment,  and  partridges,  perching  close  at 
hand,  cocked  their  foolish  heads  as  we  went  by; 

[70] 


two  otters  sported  on  a  bit  of  beach ;  trout  leaped 
every  rod  of  the  way. 

And  never  a  sign  of  man  or  mark  of  man's  de- 
structiveness ;  nor  axe  nor  fire  had  harmed  a 
single  tree.  A  journey  of  unmarred  delight 
through  a  valley  of  unending  green. 

III. SMUDGE. 

"This,"  you  say,  as  you  step  from  the  canoe 
and  help  to  fling  the  cargo  ashore,  "this  looks  like 
good  camping  ground." 

The  place  is  more  open  than  is  usual,  com 
paratively  level,  and  a  dozen  feet  above  the  river, 
which,  brawling  over  a  ledge,  spreads  into  an  at 
tractive  pool.  The  place  also  faces  the  west, 
where  there  is  promise  of  a  fine  sunset;  a  number 
of  large  birches  are  in  sight,  and  an  abundance  of 
balsam.  "And,"  you  remark,  stooping  to  untie 
the  tent-bag,  "there  are  not  many  flies." 

Instantly  a  mosquito  sings  in  your  ear,  and  as 
you  still  his  song  you  recall  a  recent  statement  by 
the  scientist  Klein,  that  an  insect's  wings  flap  four 
hundred  times  in  a  second.  The  mind  does  not 
readily  grasp  so  rapid  a  motion,  but  you  accept 
the  figures  on  trust,  as  you  accept  the  distances  of 
interstellar  spaces. 

Very  soon  you  discover  that  you  were  in  error 
about  the  fewness  of  the  flies.  They  are  all 
there — mosquitoes,  black-flies,  deer-flies,  and 

[71] 


punkies,  besides  other  species  strictly  vegetarian. 
So  you  drop  the  tent-bag  and  build  a  smudge.  Ex 
perience  has  taught  you  to  make  a  small  but  hot 
fire,  and  when  this  is  well  under  way  you  kick  open 
a  rotted,  moss-grown  cedar  and  "scoop  up  hand- 
fuls  of  damp  mould.  This,  piled  on  and  banked 
around  the  fire,  provides  a  smudge  that  is  con 
tinuous  and  effective.  We  built  smudges  morn 
ing,  noon,  and  night.  Whenever  a  halt  was 
called,  if  only  for  five  minutes,  I  reached  me 
chanically  for  a  strip  of  birchbark  and  a  handful 
of  twigs.  At  one  camping  place  the  ring  of 
smudges  suggested  the  magic  fire  circle  in  "Die 
Walkiire."  Brunhilde  lay  in  her  tent,  in  a  reek 
of  smoke,  while  Wotan,  in  no  humor  for  song, 
heaped  vegetable  tinder  upon  the  defending  fires. 
More  than  once  the  darkening  forest  and  the 
steel-gray  sky  of  a  Canadian  twilight  have  set  me 
humming  the  motives  of  "The  Ring,"  and  I  shall 
always  remember  a  pretty  picture  in  an  earlier 
cruise.  "Jess"  was  a  stable  boy  who  drove  our 
team  to  the  point  where  roads  ceased,  and  during 
a  halt  in  the  expedition  this  exuberant  youth  re 
clined  upon  a  log,  and  with  a  pipe  fashioned  from 
a  reed  sought  to  imitate  responsively  the  song  of 
the  white-throated  sparrow.  He  looked  for  all 
the  world  like  Siegfried  in  his  forest. 

"Smudge."     It   is   not   a    poetic   word — mere 
mention  of  it  would  distress  Mr.  Yeats;  but  it  is 

[72] 


potent  as  "Sesame"  to  unlock  the  treasures  of 
memory.  And  before  the  laggard  Spring  comes 
round  again  many  of  us  will  sigh  for  a  whiff  of 
yellow,  acrid  smoke,  curling  from  a  smoldering 
fire  in  the  heart  of  the  enchanted  wood. 


iv. — "BOGWAH." 


We  have  been  paddling  for  more  than  an  hour, 
through  dark  and  slowly  moving  water.  Two  or 
three  hundred  yards  has  been  the  limit  of  the  view 
ahead,  as  the  stream  swerves  gracefully  from  the 
slightest  rise  of  land,  and  flows  now  east,  now 
north,  now  east,  now  south  again.  So  long  a 
stretch  of  navigable  water  is  not  common  on  the 
Delectable  River,  and  we  make  the  most  of  it, 
moving  leisurely,  and  prisoning  the  everchanging 
picture  with  the  imperfect  camera  of  the  eyes. 
Presently  a  too-familiar  sound  is  heard  above  the 
dipping  of  the  paddles,  and  the  Indian  at  the 
stern  announces,  "Bogwah!" — which  word  in  the 
tongue  of  the  Chippewa  signifies  a  shallow.  And 
as  we  round  the  next  bend  we  see  the  swifter 
water,  the  rocks  in  midstream,  and  the  gently 
slanting  line  of  treetops. 

"Bogwah"  spells  work — dragging  canoes  over 
sandy  and  pebbly  river-bottom,  or  unloading  and 
carrying  around  the  foam  of  perilous  rapids.  For 
compensation  there  is  the  pleasure  of  splashing 
ankle-deep  and  deeper  in  the  cool  current,  and 

[73] 


casting  for  trout  in  the  "laughing  shallow,"  which 
I  much  prefer  to  the  "dreaming  pool."  They 
who  choose  it  may  fish  from  boat  or  ledge :  for 
me,  to  wade  and  cast  is  the  poetry  of  angling. 

Assured  that  the  "bogwah"  before  us  extends 
for  half  a  mile  or  more,  we  decide  for  luncheon, 
and  the  canoes  are  beached  on  an  island,  sub 
merged  in  springtime,  but  at  low  water  a  heap  of 
yellow  sands.  And  I  wish  I  might  reconstruct 
for  you  the  picture  which  memory  too  faintly  out 
lines.  Mere  words  will  not  do  it,  and  yet  one  is 
impelled  to  try.  "All  literature,"  says  Mr. 
Arnold  Bennett,  in  one  of  his  stimulating  essays, 
"is  the  expression  of  feeling,  of  passion,  of 
emotion,  caused  by  a  sensation  of  the  interesting- 
ness  of  life.  What  drives  a  historian  to  write 
history?  Nothing  but  the  overwhelming  im 
pression  forced  upon  him  by  the  survey  of  past 
times.  He  is  forced  into  an  attempt  to  reconsti 
tute  the  picture  for  others." 

And  so  you  are  to  imagine  a  marshy,  brushy 
open,  circular  in  shape,  from  which  the  hills  and 
forest  recede  for  a  considerable  distance,  and  into 
which  a  lazy  brook  comes  to  merge  with  the  De 
lectable  River;  a  place  to  which  the  moose  travel 
in  great  numbers,  as  hoofmarks  and  cropped 
vegetation  bear  witness;  a  wild  place,  that  must 
be  wonderful  in  mist  and  moonlight.  Now  it  is 
drenched  with  sunrays  from  a  vaporless  sky,  and 

[74] 


the  white-throat  is  singing  all  around  us — not  the 
usual  three  sets  of  three  notes,  but  seven  triplets. 
Elsewhere  on  the  River,  days  apart,  I  heard  that 
prolonged  melody,  and  although  I  have  looked 
in  the  bird  books  for  record  of  so  sustained  a 
song,  I  have  not  found  it. 

V. FINE  FEATHERS. 

There  is  a  certain  school  of  anglers  that  go 
about  the  business  of  fishing  with  much  gravity. 
You  should  hear  the  Great  Neal  discourse  of 
their  profundities.  Lacking  that  privilege,  you 
may  conceive  a  pair  of  these  anglers  met  beside 
a  river,  seeking  to  discover  which  of  the  many  in 
sects  flying  about  is  preferred  by  the  trout  on  that 
particular  morning.  There  is  disagreement,  or 
there  is  lack  of  evidence.  It  is  decided  to  catch  a 
trout,  eviscerate  him,  and  obtain  internal  and  in 
disputable  evidence.  For  the  cast  any  fly  is  used, 
and  when  the  trout  is  opened  it  is  learned  that  he 
has  been  feeding  on  a  small  black  insect;  where 
upon  our  anglers  tie  a  number  of  flies  to  resemble 
that  insect,  and  proceed  solemnly  with  their  day's 
work.  Though  the  trout  scorn  their  fine 
feathers,  they  will  not  fish  with  any  fly. 

With  the  subtleties  of  this  school  I  have  no 
sympathy.  They  might  be  of  profit  on  waters 
that  are  much  fished,  but  they  are  wasted  on  the 

[75] 


wilderness,  where  the  trout  will  rise  to  almost  any 
lure.  When  I  make  an  expedition  I  take  along 
two  or  three  dozen  flies,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
looking  at  them,  and  rearranging  them  in  the  fly- 
book;  but  I  wet  less  than  half  a  dozen.  On  the 
Delectable  River  we  cast  only  when  trout  are 
needed  for  the  frypan.  You  are  to  picture  canoes 
drawn  up  on  a  sandbar,  and  a  ribbon  of  black 
smoke  curling  from  a  strip  of  birch  bark  that 
marks  the  beginning  of  a  fire.  It  is  time  to  get 
the  fish.  So  I  set  up  my  rod  and  walk  up 
stream  perhaps  a  hundred  yards,  casting  on  the 
current  where  it  cuts  under  the  farther  bank.  Al 
most  every  cast  evokes  a  trout ;  this  one  takes  the 
tail  fly,  a  Silver  Doctor,  the  next  one  strikes  the 
Bucktail  dropper;  any  other  flies  would  serve. 
The  largest  fish  is  taken  on  my  return,  from  under 
the  stern  of  one  of  the  canoes.  Where  trout  are 
so  plentiful  and  so  unwary,  there  is  no  call  for  the 
preparatory  work  of  the  evisceration  school  of 
anglers. 

My  reason  for  using  a  dropper  fly  is  not  to 
offer  the  trout  two  counterfeit  insects  differing  in 
shape  or  color;  as  commonly  attached  to  the 
leader,  the  dropper  swims  with  the  tail  fly. 
"Sir,"  said  the  Great  Neal,  in  the  manner  of 
Samuel  Johnson,  "when  the  dropper  is  properly 
attached,  as  I  attach  it,  two  aspects  of  the  lure 
are  presented  to  the  fish,  the  one  fly  moving 

[76] 


through  the  water,  the  other  dancing  an  inch  or  so 
above.     This,  Sir,  is  how  I  tie  it." 

And  sitting  at  the  Oracle's  feet,  ye  learn  "all 
ye  need  to  know." 

VI. THALASSA ! 

Trails  there  are  that  one  remembers  from  their 
beginnings  to  their  ends,  because  of  the  variety 
and  charm  of  the  pictures  offered  along  the 
way.  Monotony  marks  the  trails  that  fade  from 
memory;  they  represent  hours  of  marching 
through  timber  of  a  second  growth,  or  skirting 
hills  where  dead  sticks  stand  forlorn  and  only  the 
fireweed  blooms.  Of  rememberable  roads  the 
last  stage  of  our  journey  to  the  Great  Water  is 
the  one  I  have  now  in  mind.  It  is  the  longest 
carry,  two  miles  or  less,  sharply  down  hill,  though 
less  precipitate  than  the  river,  which,  after  many 
days  of  idling,  now  flings  itself  impatiently 
toward  the  shore.  We  linger  where  it  makes  its 
first  great  leap.  Many  have  come  thus  far  from 
the  south,  and,  looking  on  the  shallow  pool  be 
yond,  have  decided  that  there  is  no  profit  in  going 
farther;  or  they  have  explored  a  bit  and,  encoun 
tering  bogwah,  have  reached  the  same  conclusion. 
Who  would  conjecture  that  past  the  shallows  lie 
leagues  of  deep  and  winding  waters,  reserved  by 
nature  as  a  reward  for  the  adventurer  who  counts 
a  glimpse  of  the  unknown  worth  all  the  labor  of 

[77] 


the  day?  We  who  have  come  from  the  head 
waters  know  that  nature  has  as  wisely  screened 
the  river's  source.  Where  the  lake  ends  is  a  for 
bidding  tangle  of  water  shrubs  and  timber;  the 
outlet  is  an  archipelago  of  sharp  rocks,  and  the 
stream,  if  found,  is  seen  to  be  small  and  turbulent. 
The  last  carry  keeps  the  Delectable  River  in 
view;  foam,  seen  through  the  firs,  marks  its 
plunging  flight.  And  then  we  draw  away  from  it 
for  a  space,  and  cross  an  open  thickly  strewn  with 
great  stones,  a  sunlit  place,  where  berries  and  a 
few  flowers  are  privileged  to  exist.  A  little  time 
is  spent  here  in  picking  up  the  trail,  which  has 
spilled  itself  among  the  stones;  then,  the  narrow 
footway  regained,  we  drop  as  quickly  as  the  river, 
and  presently  our  feet  touch  sand.  We  break 
through  a  fringe  of  evergreens  and  cry  out  as  the 
Greeks  cried  out  when  they  saw  the  sea.  The 
lake  at  last ! — 

The   river,   done   with    wandering f 

The  silver,  silent  shore. 


[78] 


A  LINE-O'-TYPE  OR  TWO 


'Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be." 


ARMS  AND  THE  COLYUM. 

1SING  of  arms  and  heroes,  not  because 
I'm  thrilled  by  what  these  heroes  do  or  die  for: 
The  Colyum's  readers  think  they  make  its  laws, 
And  I  make  out  to  give  them  what  they  cry  for. 

And  since  they  cry  for  stuff  about  the  war, 

Since  war  at  this  safe  distance  not  to  them's  hell, 

I  have  to  write  of  things  that  I  abhor, 

And  far,  strange  battlegrounds  like  Ypres  and  Przemysl. 

War  is  an  almost  perfect  rime  for  bore; 

And,  'spite  my  readers  (who  have  cursed  and  blessed  me), 

Some  day  I'll  throw  the  war  junk  on  the  floor, 

And  write  of  things  that  really  interest  me : 

Of  books  in  running  brooks,  and  wilding  wings, 
Of  music,  Stardust,  children,  casements  giving 
On  seas  unvext  by  wars,  and  other  things 
That  help  to  make  our  brief  life  worth  the  living. 

I  sing  of  arms  and  heroes,  just  because 
All  else  is  shadowed  by  that  topic  fearful; 
But  I've  a  mind  to  chuck  it  [Loud  applause], 
And  tune  my  dollar  harp  to  themes  more  cheerful. 

[79] 


p 

LISTEN,  Laura,  Mary,  Jessica,  Dorothy,  and 
other  sweet  singers !  Gadder  Roy,  who  is  toil 
ing  over  the  pitcher-and-bowl  circuit,  wishes  that 
some  poet  would  do  a  lyric  on  that  salvation  of 
the  traveler,  Ham  and  Eggs.  He  doubts  that  it 
can  be  done  by  anybody  who  has  not,  time  out  of 
mind,  scanned  a  greasy  menu  in  a  greasier 
hashery,  and  finally  made  it  h.  and  e. 

WE  FEARED  WE  HAD  STARTED 
SOMETHING. 

Sir :  Should  G.  E.  Thorpe's  typewritten  com 
munications  carrying  the  suggestion  GET/FAT 
precede  or  follow  our  communications  which 
carry  EAT/ME?  E.  A.  T. 

THEY'RE  OFF! 

Sir:  What  position  in  your  letter  file,  respect 
ing  the  suggestions  of  GET/FAT,  will  my  type 
written  letters  land,  as  they  end  thusly: 
"HEL/NO"?  H.  E.  L. 

SWEETLY  INEFFECTIVE. 

Sir:  Perhaps  the  reason  my  collection  letters 
have  so  little  effect  lately  is  that  these  cheerless 
communications  always  conclude  with  JAM/JAR. 

J.  A.  M. 
BUT  APROPOS. 

Sir:  All  this  GET/FAT  excitement  reminds 
me  of  the  case,  so  old  it's  probably  new  again,  of 

[so] 


one  Simmons,  who  wrote  letters  for  one  Green, 
and  signed  them  "Green,  per  Simmons." 

W.  S. 

SORRY.     THERE   WERE    SEVERAL    IN    LINE 
AHEAD  OF  YOU. 

Sir:  I  have  been  waiting,  very  patiently,  for 
some  one  to  inform  you  that  the  sincerity  of  A. 
L.  Lewis,  manager  of  the  country  elevator  de 
partment  of  the  Quaker  Oats  Company,  is  some 
times  made  questionable  by  the  initials,  ALL/ 
GAS,  appearing  on  his  business  correspondence. 

O.  K. 

THE  SECOND  POST. 

[Received   by   a   clothing   company.] 

Dear  Sirs :  I  received  the  suits  you  sent  me 
but  in  blue  not  gray  as  I  said.  Don't  try  to  send 
me  your  refuss,  I  am  sending  them  back.  I  ain't 
color  blind  or  a  jack  ass,  you  shouldn't  treat  me 
as  that.  I  understand  your  wife  is  making  coats 
for  ladies  now.  Have  her  make  one  (dark)  for 
my  wife  who  is  a  stout  42  with  a  fer  neck.  Now 
send  me  what  I  asked  for,  the  old  woman  is  per- 
ticular.  The  trousers  you  sent  wouldn't  slip  over 
my  head.  Ever  faithful,  etc. 

FOR  Academy  Ghost,  or  Familiar  Spirit,  P.  D. 
Q.  nominates  Miss  Bessie  Spectre  of  Boston. 

[81] 


m 
"THE  lake  is  partially  frozen  over  and  well 

filled  with  skaters." — Janesville  Gazette. 

Three   children    sliding   on    the   ice, 

Upon  a  summer's  day, 
As  it  fell  out,  they  all  fell  in, 

The  rest  they  ran  away. 

MA  GOOSE. 

THERE  is  plenty  of  snap  to  the  department  of 
mathematics  in  the  Shortridge  high  school  in  In 
dianapolis.  The  head  of  the  department  is 
Walter  G.  Gingery. 

WEDDED,  in  Chicago,  Otho  Neer  and  Lucille 
Dimond.  Fashion  your  own  setting. 

OH,  dear !  Rollin  Pease,  the  singer,  is  around 
again,  reminding  sundry  readers  of  the  difficulty 
of  keeping  them  on  a  knife. 

"THOSE  FLAPJACKS  OF  BROWN'S." 

(Postscriptum.) 

I'll  write  no  more  verses — plague  take  'era! — 
Court  neither  your  smiles  nor  your  frowns, 

If  you'll  only  please  tell  how  to  make  'em, 
Those  flapjacks  of  Brown's.  D.  W.  A. 

Three  cupfuls  of  flour  will  do  nicely, 

And  toss  in  a  teaspoon  of  salt; 
Next  add  baking  powder,  precisely 

Two  teaspoons,  the  stuff  to  exalt ; 

[82] 


Of  sugar  two  tablespoons,  heaping — 

(All  spoons  should  be  heaping,  says  Neal)  ; 

Then  mix  it  with  strokes  that  are  sweeping, 
And  stir  like  the  Deil. 

Three  eggs.    (Tho'  the  missus  may  sputter, 

You'll  pay  to  her  protest  no  heed. ) 
A  size-of-an-egg  piece  of  butter, 

And  milk  as  you  happen  to  need. 
Now  mix  the  whole  mess  with  a  beater; 

Don't  get  it  too  thick  or  too  thin. 
(And  I  pause  to  remark  that  this  meter 

Is  awkward  as  sin.) 

Of  course  there  are  touches  that  only 

A  genius  like  Brown  can  impart; 
And  genius  is  everywhere  lonely, 

And  no  one  but  Brown  has  the  art. 
I  picture  him  stirring — a  gentle 

Exponent  of  modern  Romance, 
With  his  shirttails,  in  style  Oriental, 

Outside  of  his  pants. 

THE  DICTATERS. 

Sir:  I  have  lost  a  year's  growth  since  I  went 
into  business  in  answering  questions  about  the  let 
ters  that  appear  after  my  communications — 
HAM/AND.  H.  A.  M. 

LETTERS  from  the  vice-president  of  the  Badger 
Talking  Machine  Company  of  Milwaukee  are 
signed  JAS/AK.  What  do  you  make  of  that, 
Watsonius? 

[83] 


THE  following  was  typed  at  the  end  of  a  letter 
received  t'other  day:  "HEE/HA." 

RECURRING  to  the  dictaters,  letters  from  the 
O'Meara  Paper  company  of  New  York  are 
tagged  JEW/EM. 

IRENE,  she  works  for  David  Meyer, 
Likes  her  job,  not  peeved  a  bit. 

But  when  she  ends  a  letter  she 

Marks  it  with  this  sign,  DAM/IT. 

FERRO. 

HINT  to  students  in  the  School  of  Journalism: 
Always  begin  the  description  of  a  tumultuous 
scene  by  saying  that  it  is  indescribable,  and  then 
proceed  to  describe  it  until  the  telegraph  editor 
chokes  you  off. 

To  our  young  friend  who  expects  to  operate 
a  column:  Lay  off  the  item  about  Miss  Hicks 
entertaining  Carrie  Dedbeete  and  Ima  Proone; 
it  is  phony.  But  the  wheeze  about  the  "eternal 
revenue  collector"  is  still  good,  and  timely. 

"I  AM  a  cub  reporter,"  writes  W.  H.  D.,  uand 
am  going  to  conduct  a  column  in  a  few  weeks,  I 
think."  Zazzo?  Well,  you  can't  do  better  than 
to  start  with  the  announcement  that  Puls  &  Puls 
are  dentists  in  Sheboygan.  And  you  might  add 
that  if  the  second  Puls  is  a  son  the  firm  should  be 
Puls  &  Fils. 

[84] 


OUR  cub  reporter  friend,  W.  H.  D.,  who  ex 
pects  to  run  a  column  presently,  should  not  over 
look  the  sure-fire  wheeze,  "Shoes  shined  on  the  in 
side." 

STILL  undiscouraged  by  the  failure  of  his 
"shoes  shined  on  the  inside"  wheeze  to  get  by, 
the  new  contrib  hopefully  sends  us  the  laundry 
slogan:  "Don't  kill  your  wife.  Let  us  do  the 
dirty  work." 

WHEN  all  the  world  is  safe  for  democracy,  only 
the  aristocracy  of  taste  will  remain,  and  this  will 
cover  the  world.  There  is  hardly  a  town  so 
small  that  it  does  not  contain  at  least  one  member. 
All  races  belong  to  it,  and  its  passwords  are  ac 
cepted  in  every  capital.  Its  mysteries  are  Rosi- 
crucian  to  persons  without  taste.  And  no  other 
aristocracy  was  ever,  or  ever  will  be,  so  closely 
and  sympathetically  knit  together. 

WHETHER  Europe  and  Latin  America  like  it 
or  not,  the  Monroe  Doctrine  must  and  shall  be 
preserved.  You  may  remember  the  case  of  the 
man  who  was  accused  of  being  a  traitor.  It  was 
charged  that  he  had  spoken  as  disrespectfully  of 
the  Monroe  Doctrine  as  Jeffrey  once  spoke  of 
the  Equator.  This  the  man  denied  vigorously. 
He  avowed  that  he  loved  the  Monroe  Doctrine, 
that  he  was  willing  to  fight  for  it,  and,  if  neces- 

[85] 


sary,  to  die  for  it.     All  he  had  said  was  that  he 
didn't  know  what  it  was  about. 

"THERE  will  be  no  speeches.  The  entire 
evening  will  be  given  over  to  entertainment." — 
Duluth  News-Tribune. 

At  least  prohibition  is  a  check  on  oratory. 

WE  have  just  been  talking  to  an  optimist,  whose 
nerves  have  been  getting  shaky.  We  fancy  that 
a  straw  vote  of  the  rocking-chair  fleet  on  a  sani 
tarium  porch  would  show  a  preponderance  of  op 
timists.  What  brought  them  there?  Worry, 
which  is  brother  to  optimism.  We  attribute  our 
good  health  and  reasonable  amount  of  hair  to  the 
fact  that  we  never  flirted  with  optimism,  except 
for  a  period  of  about  five  years,  during  which 
time  we  lost  more  hair  than  in  all  the  years  since. 

MAY  we  again  point  out  that  pessimism  is  the 
only  cheerful  philosophy?  The  pessimist  is  not 
concerned  over  the  so-called  yellow  peril — at 
least  the  pessimist  who  subscribes  to  the  theory 
of  the  degradation  of  energy.  Europe  is  losing 
its  pep,  but  so  is  Asia.  There  may  be  a  differ 
ence  of  degree,  but  not  enough  to  keep  one  from 
sleeping  soundly  o'  nights.  The  twentieth  or 
twenty-first  century  can  not  produce  so  energetic 
a  gang  as  that  which  came  out  of  Asia  in  the  fifth 
century. 

[86] 


U!F  I  had  no  duties,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "and 
no  reference  to  futurity,  I  would  spend  my  life 
in  driving  briskly  in  a  postchaise  with  a  pretty 
woman."  And  we  wonder  whether  the  old  boy, 
were  he  living  now,  would  choose,  instead,  a 
Ford. 

IN  time  of  freeze  prepare  for  thaw.  And  no 
better  advice  can  be  given  than  Doc  Robertson's : 
"Keep  your  feet  dry  and  your  gutters  open." 

THERE  was  an  Irish  meeting  in  Janesville  the 
other  night,  and  the  press  reported  that  "Garlic 
songs  were  sung."  And  we  recall  another  report 
of  a  lecture  on  Yeats  and  the  Garlic  Revival.  Just 
a  moment,  while  we  take  a  look  at  the  linotype 
keyboard.  .  .  . 

THINGS  WORTH  KNOWING. 

Sir:  A  method  of  helping  oneself  to  soda 
crackers,  successfully  employed  by  a  traveling 
man,  may  be  of  interest  to  your  boarding  house 
readers.  Slice  off  a  small  piece  of  butter,  leav 
ing  it  on  the  knife,  then  reach  across  the  table  and 
slap  the  cracker.  V. 

BY  the  way,  Bismarck  had  a  solution  of  the 
Irish  problem  which  may  have  been  forgotten. 
He  proposed  that  the  Irish  and  the  Dutch  ex- 


change  countries.  The  Dutch,  he  said,  would 
make  a  garden  of  Ireland.  "And  the  Irish?"  he 
was  asked.  "Oh,"  he  replied,  "the  Irish  would 
neglect  the  dikes." 

A  CITY  is  known  by  the  newspapers  it  keeps. 
They  reflect  the  tastes  of  the  community,  and  if 
they  are  lacking  in  this  or  that  it  is  because  the 
community  is  lacking.  And  so  it  is  voxpoppycock 
to  complain  that  a  newspaper  is  not  what  a  small 
minority  thinks  it  ought  to  be.  The  fault,  dear 
Brutus,  is  not  in  our  journals,  but  in  ourselves, 
that  we  are  underlings. 

Dissatisfaction  with  American  newspapers  be 
gan  with  the  first  one  printed,  and  has  been  in 
creasing  steadily  since.  In  another  hundred 
years  this  dissatisfaction  may  develop  into  posi 
tive  annoyance. 

WE  tried  to  have  a  sign  in  Los  Onglaze  trans 
lated  into  French  for  the  benefit  of  Lizy,  the  lino 
type  operator  who  sets  this  column  in  Paris,  and 
who  says  she  has  yet  to  get  a  laugh  out  of  it,  but 
two  Frenchmen  who  tried  their  hand  at  it  gave  it 
up.  Perhaps  the  compositor  at  the  adjacent 
machine  can  randmacnally  it  for  Lizy.  Here  is 
the  enseigne: 

"Flannels  washed  without  shrinking  in  the  rear." 

[88] 


To  the  fair  Murine :  "Drink  to  me  only  with 
thine  eyes." 

"HOSIERY  for  Easter,"  declares  an  enraptured 
ad  writer  in  the  Houston  Post,  "reaches  new 
heights  of  loveliness." 

IF  the  persons  who  parade  around  with 
placards  announcing  that  this  or  that  shop  is 
"unfair"  were  to  change  the  legend  to  read,  "God 
is  unfair,"  they  might  get  a  sympathetic  rise  out 
of  us.  We  might  question  the  assertion  that  in 
creating  men  unequal  the  Creator  was  actuated 
by  malice  rather  than  a  sense  of  humor,  but  we 
should  not  insist  on  the  point. 

THE  SECOND  POST. 

[Received  by  a  construction  company.] 

Dear  Sir  I  an  writhing  you  and  wanted  to 
know  that  can  I  get  a  book  from  your  company 
which  will  teach  me  of  oprating  steam  and  steam 
ingean.  I  was  fireing  at  a  plant  not  long  ago 
and  found  one  of  your  catalogs  and  it  give  me 
meny  good  idol  about  steam.  I  have  been  opi- 
ratin  stean  for  the  last  12  years  for  I  know  that 
there  are  lots  more  to  learn  about  steam  and  I 
want  to  learn  it  so  I  will  close  for  this  time  ex 
pecting  to  here  from  you  soon. 

[89] 


"SiNCE  Frank  Harris  has  been  mentioned," 
communicates  C.  E.  L.,  "it  would  be  interesting 
to  a  lot  of  folks  to  know  just  what  standing  he  has 
in  literature."  Oh,  not  much.  Aside  from 
being  one  of  the  best  editors  the  Saturday  Re 
view  ever  had,  one  of  the  best  writers  of  short 
stories  in  English  or  any  other  language,  and  one 
of  the  most  acute  critics  in  the  profession,  his 
standing  is  negligible. 

OUR  young  friend  who  is  about  to  become  a 
colyumist  should  certainly  include  in  his  first 
string  the  restaurant  wheeze :  "Don't  laugh  at  our 
coffee.  You  may  be  old  and  weak  yourself  some 
day." 

"ONE  sinister  eye — the  right  one — gleamed  at 
him  over  the  pistol." — Baltimore  Sun. 

No  wonder  foreigners  have  a  hard  time  with 
the  American  language. 

BALLADE  OF  THE  OUBLIETTE. 

And  deeper  still  the  deep-down  oubliette, 
Down  thirty  feet  below  the  smiling  day. 

— Tennyson. 
Sudden  in  the  sun 
An  oubliette  winks.     Where  is  he?     Gone. 

— Mrs.  Browning. 

Gaoler  of  the  donjon  deep — 
Black  from  pit  to  parapet — 
In  whose  depths  forever  sleep 
Famous  bores  whose  sun  has  set, 

[90] 


Daily  ope  the  portal;  let 
In  the  bores  who  daily  bore. 
Thrust — sans  sorrow  or  regret — 
Thrust  them  through  the  Little  Door. 

Warder  of  Oblivion's  keep — 
Dismal  dank,  and  black  as  jet — 
Through  the  fatal  wicket  sweep 
All  the  pests  we  all  have  met. 
Prithee,  overlook  no  bet; 
Grab  them — singly,  by  the  score — 
And,  lest  they  be  with  us  yet, 
Thrust  them  through  the  Little  Door. 

Lead  them  to  the  awful  leap 

With  a  merry  chansonette; 

Push  them  blithely  off  the  steep; 

We'll  forgive  them  and  forget. 

Toss  them,  like  a  cigarette, 

To  the  far  Plutonian  floor. 

Drop  them  where  they'll  cease  to  fret — 

Thrust  them  through  the  Little  Door. 

Keeper  of  the  Oubliette, 

Wouldst  thou  have  us  more  and  more 

In  thine  everlasting  debt — 

Thrust  them  through  the  Little  Door. 

To  insure  the  safety  of  the  traveling  public,  the 
Maroon  Taxicab  Company  is  putting  out  a  line  of 
armored  cabs.  These  will  also  be  equipped  with 
automatic  brakes,  so  that  when  a  driver  for  t 

[91] 


rival  taxicab  company  shoots  a  Maroon,  the  cab 
will  come  to  a  stop. 

A  NEAT  and  serviceable  Christmas  gift  is  a 
sawed-off  shotgun.  Carried  in  your  limousine,  it 
may  aid  in  saving  your  jewels  when  returning 
from  the  opera. 

"THE  entertainment  committee  of  the  Union 
League  Club,"  so  it  says,  "is  with  considerable  ef 
fort  spending  some  of  your  money  to  please  you." 
In  the  clubs  to  which  we  belong  there  is  no  ob 
servable  effort. 

CERTAIN  toadstools  are  colored  a  pizenous 
pink  underneath;  a  shade  which  is  also  found  on 
the  cheeks  of  damosels  and  dames  whom  you  see 
on  the  avenue.  Poor  kalsomining,  we  call  it. 

WHEN  we  begin  to  read  a  book  we  begin  with 
the  title  page;  but  many  people,  probably  most, 
begin  at  "Chapter  I."  We  have  recommended 
books  to  friends,  and  they  have  read  them;  and 
then  they  have  said,  "Tell  me  something  about 
the  author."  The  preface  would  have  told  them, 
but  they  do  not  read  prefaces.  Do  you? 

ALTHOUGH  ongweed  to  the  extinction  point  by 
the  subject  of  names,  we  have  no  right  to  assume 
that  the  subject  is  not  of  lively  interest  to  other 

[92] 


people.  So  let  it  be  recorded  that  George  Demon 
was  arrested  in  Council  Bluffs  for  beating  his  wife. 
Also,  Miss  Elsie  Hugger  is  director  of  dancing 
in  the  Ithaca  Conservatory  of  Music.  Further 
more,  S.  W.  Henn  of  the  Iowa  State  College  was 
selected  as  a  judge  for  the  National  Poultry  Show. 
Moreover,  G.  O.  Wildhack  is  in  the  automobile 
business  in  Indianapolis,  and  Mrs.  Cataract  takes 
in  washing  in  Peoria.  Sleepy  weather,  isn't  it? 

SUCH  A  ONE  MIGHT  HAVE  DRAWN  PRIAM'S 
CURTAIN  IN  THE  DEAD  OF  NIGHT,  AND 
TOLD  HIM  HALF  HIS  TROY  WAS  BURNED. 

[From  the  Eagle  Grove,  la.,  Eagle.] 

The  Rev.  Winter  was  pastor  of  the  M.  E. 
Church  many  years  ago,  at  the  time  it  was  de 
stroyed  by  a  cyclone.  Engineer  Sam  Wood  broke 
the  news  to  Mr.  Winter  gently  by  shouting: 
"Your  church  has  all  blown  to  hell,  Elder!" 

THE  ENRAPTURED  REPORTER. 

[From  the  Lewisville,  Ark.,  Recorder.] 

The  evening  was  most  propitious.  The  air  was 
balmy.  The  fragrance  of  flowers  was  patent  in 
the  breeze.  The  limpid  moonlight,  in  a  glow  of 
beauty,  kissed  the  hills  and  valleys.  While  from 
the  vines  and  bushes  the  merry  twitter  of  play 
ful  birds,  symphonies  soft  and  low,  entranced  with 
other  delight,  the  romantic  party  goers.  Now  a 

[93] 


still  other  delight  was  in  store — some  fine  music 
and  good  singing,  which  every  recipient  enjoyed 
to  the  highest  note.  Thanks  and  compliments  for 
such  a  model  evening  were  ornate  and  lavish  and 
all  left  truly  glad  that  they  had  been. 

FULL  OF  HIS  SUBJECT. 
[From  the  Evansvillc,  Ind.,  Courier.] 

Dr.  Hamilton  A.  Hymes,  pastor  of  Grace 
Memorial  Presbyterian  church,  has  recovered 
from  a  recent  illness,  caused  from  a  carbuncle  on 
his  neck.  His  subject  for  Sunday  night  will  be 
"Is  There  a  Hell?" 


THAT  TRIOLET  DRIVEL. 

Will  you  can  it  or  no? — 

That  Triolet  drivel. 
It  irritates  so. 
Will  you  can  it  or  no? 
For  the  habit  may  grow, 

And  the  thought  makes  me  snivel. 
Will  you  can  it  or  no? — 

That  Triolet  drivel. 

D.  A.  D.  BuRNirr. 

Yes,  we'll  can  it  or  no, 

As  the  notion  may  seize  us. 
If  a  thing  is  de  trop, 
Yes;  we'll  can  it — or  no. 

[94] 


For  we  always  let  go 

When  a  thing  doesn't  please  us. 
Yes,  we'll  can  it,  or — no, 

As  the  notion  may  seize  us. 

SIR  OLIVER  LODGE  has  seen  so  many  tables 
move  and  heard  so  many  tambourines,  that  he  now 
keeps  an  open  mind  on  miracles.  We  hope  he 
believes  that  the  three  angels  appeared  to  Joan 
of  Arc,  as  that  is  our  favorite  miracle.  Had  they 
appeared  only  once  we  might  have  doubted  the 
apparition;  but,  as  we  remember  the  story,  they 
appeared  three  times. 

SIR  OLIVER  may  be  interested  in  a  case  reported 
to  us  by  L.  J.  S.  His  company  had  issued  a  tour 
ist  policy  to  a  lady  who  lost  her  trunk  on  the  way 
to  Tulsa,  Okla.,  and  who  put  in  a  claim  for  $800. 
The  adjuster  at  Dallas  wrote : 

"Assured  is  the  famous  mind  reader,  and  one 
of  her  best  stunts  is  answering  questions  in  re 
gard  to  the  location  of  stolen  property,  but  she 
was  unable  to  be  of  any  assistance  to  me." 

SOME  of  the  members  of  the  Cosmopolitan  club 
are  about  as  cosmopolitan  as  the  inhabitants  of 
Cosmopolis,  Mich. 

Ax  the  request  of  a  benedick  we  are  rushing  to 
the  Cannery  by  parcel-post  Jar  617:  "Don't  they 
make  a  nice-looking  couple !" 

[95] 


ENGLISH  AS  SHE  IS  MURDERED. 

Sir:  After  Pedagogicus'  class  gets  through 
with  Senator  Borah's  masterpiece,  it  might  look 
over  this  legend  which  the  Herald  and  Examiner 
has  been  carrying:  "Buy  bonds  like  the  victors 
fought."  E.  E.  E. 

THE  Illinois  War  Savings  Bulletin  speaks  of 
"personal  self-interest."  This  means  you! 

"GRADUATION  from  the  worst  to  the  best  stuff," 
is  Mr.  W.  L.  George's  method  of  acquiring  liter 
ary  taste.  Something  can  be  said  for  the  method, 
and  Mr.  George  says  it  well,  and  we  are  sorry, 
in  a  manner  of  speaking,  not  to  believe  a  word 
of  it;  unless,  as  is  possible,  we  both  believe  the 
same  thing  fundamentally.  Taste,  in  literature 
and  music,  and  in  other  things,  is,  we  are  quite 
sure,  natural.  It  can  be  trained,  but  this  training 
is  a  matter  of  new  discoveries.  A  taste  that  has 
to  be  led  by  steps  from  Owen  Meredith  to  George 
Meredith,  which  could  not  recognize  the  worth  of 
the  latter  before  passing  through  the  former,  is 
no  true  taste.  Graduation  from  the  simple  to  the 
complex  is  compatible  with  a  natural  taste,  but 
this  simple  may  be  first  class,  as  much  music  and 
literature  is.  New  forms  of  beauty  may  puzzle 
the  possessor  of  natural  taste,  but  not  for  long. 
He  does  not  require  preparation  in  inferior  stuff. 

[96] 


SPEAKING  of  George  Meredith,  we  are  told 
again  (they  dig  the  thing  up  every  two  or  three 
years)  that,  when  a  reader  for  Chapman  &  Hall, 
he  turned  down  "East  Lynne,"  "Erewhon,"  and 
other  books  that  afterward  became  celebrated. 
What  of  it?  Meredith  may  not  have  known  any 
thing  about  literature,  but  he  knew  what  he  liked. 
Moreover,  he  was  a  marked  and  original  writer, 
and  as  that  tolerant  soul,  Jules  Lemaitre,  has 
noted,  the  most  marked  and  original  of  writers 
are  those  who  do  not  understand  everything,  nor 
feel  everything,  nor  love  everything,  but  those 
whose  knowledge,  intelligence,  and  tastes  have 
definite  limitations. 

BUT  WOULD  IT  NOT  REQUIRE  A  GEOLOGIC 
PERIOD? 

Sir:  You  are  kind  enough  to  refer  to  my  lec 
ture  on  "Literary  Taste  and  How  to  Acquire  It." 
I  venture  to  suggest  that  your  summary — viz. : 
"It  is  to  read  only  first-class  stuff,"  not  only  fails 
to  meet  the  problem,  but  represents  exactly  the 
view  that  I  am  out  to  demolish.  If,  as  I  presume, 
you  mean  that  the  ambitious  person  who  now 
reads  Harold  Bell  Wright  should  sit  down  to  the 
works  of  Shakespeare,  I  can  tell  you  at  once  that 
the  process  will  be  a  failure.  My  method  is  one 
of  graduation  from  the  worst  to  the  best  stuff. 

W.  L.  GEORGE. 

[97] 


WE  do  not  wish  to  crab  W.  L.  George's  act, 
"Literary  Taste  and  How  to  Acquire  It,"  but 
we  know  the  answer.  It  is  to  read  only  first-class 
stuff.  Circumstances  may  oblige  a  man  to  write 
second-class  books,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  he 
should  read  such. 

THE  STORM. 

(By  a  girl  of  ten  years.) 
It  lightnings,  it  thunders 
And  I  go  under, 
And  where  do  I  go, 
I  wonder. 

I  go,  I  go — 
I  know. 

Under  the  covers, 
That's  where  I  go. 

The  little  poet  of  the  foregoing  knew  where 
she  was  going,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said 
for  many  modern  bards. 

THE  EIGHTH  VEIL. 

(By  J-mes  Hun-k-r.) 

There  was  a  wedding  under  way.  From  the 
bright-lit  mansion  came  the  evocations  of  a  loud 
bassoon.  Ulick  Guffle,  in  whom  the  thought  of 
matrimony  always  produced  a  bitter  nausea,  glow 
ered  upon  the  house  and  spat  acridly  upon  the 

[98] 


pave.  "Imbeciles!  Humbugs!  Romantic  rotl" 
he  raged. 

Three  young  men  drew  toward  the  scene. 
Ulick  barred  their  way,  but  two  of  the  trio  slipped 
by  him  and  escaped.  The  third  was  nailed  by 
Guffle's  glittering  eye.  Ulick  laid  an  ineluctable 
hand  upon  the  stranger's  arm.  "Listen!"  he  com 
manded.  "Matrimony  and  Art  are  sworn  and 
natural  foes.  Ingeborg  Bunck  was  right;  there 
are  no  illegitimate  children;  all  children  are  valid. 
Sounds  like  Lope  de  Vega,  doesn't  it?  But  it 
isn't.  It  is  Bunck.  Whitman,  too,  divined  the 
truth.  Love  is  a  germ ;  sunlight  kills  it.  It  needs 
1'obscurite  and  a  high  temperature.  As  Baude 
laire  said — or  was  it  Maurice  Barres? — dans  la 
nuit  tous  les  chats  sont  gris.  Remy  de  Gour- 
mont  .  .  ." 

The  wedding  guest  beat  his  shirtfront;  he  could 
hear  the  bassoon  doubling  the  cello.  But  Ulick 
continued  ineluctably.  "Woman  is  a  sink  of 
iniquity.  Only  Gounod  is  more  loathsome.  That 
Ave  Maria — Grand  Dieu !  But  Frederic  Chopin, 
nuance,  cadence,  appoggiatura — there  you  have 
it.  En  amour,  les  vieux  fous  sont  plus  fous  que 
les  jeunes.  Listen  to  Rochefoucauld!  And  Mon 
taigne  has  said,  C'est  le  jouir  et  non  le  posseder 
qui  rend  heureux.  And  Pascal  has  added,  Les 
affaires  sont  les  affaires.  As  for  Stendhal,  Flau 
bert,  Nietzsche,  Edgar  Saltus,  Balzac,  Gautier, 

[99] 


Dostoievsky,  Rabelais,  Maupassant,  Anatole 
France,  Bourget,  Turgenev,  Verlaine,  Renan, 
Walter  Pater,  Landor,  Cardinal  Newman  and 
the  Brothers  Goncourt  ..." 

Ulick  seized  his  head  with  both  hands,  and  the 
wedding  guest  seized  the  opportunity  to  beat  it, 
as  the  saying  is.  "Swine!"  Ulick  flung  after 
him.  uSwine,  before  whom  I  have  cast  a  hatful  of 
pearls !"  He  spat  even  more  acridly  upon  the 
pave  and  turned  away.  "After  all,"  he  growled, 
"Stendhal  was  right.  Or  was  it  Huysmans?  No, 
it  was  neither.  It  was  Cambronne." 

THOUGH  there  has  been  little  enough  to  en 
courage  it,  the  world  is  growing  kinder;  at  least 
friendliness  is  increasing.  Every  other  day  we 
read  of  some  woman  living  pleasantly  in  a  well 
appointed  apartment,  supplied  with  fine  raiment 
and  an  automobile,  the  fruit  of  Platonism.  "No," 
she  testifies,  "there  was  nothing  between  us.  He 
was  merely  a  friend." 

WHAT  heaven  hath  cleansed  let  no  man  put 
asunder.  Emma  Durdy  and  Raymond  Bathe,  of 
Nokomis,  have  been  j.  in  the  h.  b.  of  w. 

THE  TRACERS  ARE  AT  WORK. 

Sir :    Please  consult  the  genealogical  files  of  the 
Academy  and  advise  me  if  Mr.  Harm  Poppen  of 
[100] 


Gurley,  Nebraska,  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  1the. 
w.  k.  Helsa  Poppen,  famous  in  profane  history. 

E.  E.  M. 

OUR  opinion,  already  recorded,  is  that  if  Keats 
had  spent  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  more  on  his 
Grecian  Urn,  all  of  the  stanzas  would  be  as  good 
as  three  of  them.  And  so  we  think  that  if  A.  B. 
had  put  in,  say,  a  half  hour  more  on  her  sonnet 
she  would  not  have  rhymed  "worldliness"  and 
"moodiness."  Of  the  harmony,  counterpoint,  thor 
oughbass,  etc.,  of  verse  we  know  next  to  nothing 
— we  play  on  our  tin  whistle  entirely  by  ear — but 
there  are  things  which  we  avoid,  perhaps  need 
lessly.  One  of  these  is  the  rhyming  of  words  like 
utterly,  monody,  lethargy,  etc. ;  these  endings 
seem  weak  when  they  are  bunched.  Our  assist 
ants  will  apprehend  that  we  are  merely  offering 
a  suggestion  or  two,  which  we  hope  they  will  fol 
low  up  by  exploring  the  authorities. 

Music  like  Brahms'  Second  Symphony  is  pecul 
iarly  satisfying  to  the  listener.  The  first  few 
measures  disclose  that  the  composer  is  in  complete 
control  of  his  ideas  and  his  expression  of  them. 
He  has  something  to  say,  and  he  says  it  without 
uncertainty  or  redundancy.  Only  a  man  who  has 
something  to  say  may  dare  to  say  it  only  once. 

[101] 


-  THOSE 'happy  beings  who  "don't  know  a  thing 
about  art,  but  know  what  they  like,"  are  re 
stricted  to  the  obvious  because  of  ignorance  of 
form;  their  enjoyment  ends  where  that  of  the 
cultivated  person  begins.  Take  music.  The  per 
son  who  knows  what  he  likes  takes  his  pleasure 
in  the  tune,  but  gets  little  or  nothing  from  the 
tune's  development;  hence  his  favorite  music  is 
music  which  is  all  tune. 

We  recall  a  naive  query  by  the  publisher  of  a 
magazine,  at  a  musicale  in  Gotham.  Our  hostess, 
an  accomplished  pianist,  had  played  a  Chopin 
Fantasia,  and  the  magazine  man  was  expressing 
his  qualified  enjoyment.  "What  I  can't  under 
stand,"  said  he,  "is  why  the  tune  quits  just  when 
it's  running  along  nicely."  This  phenomenon,  no 
doubt,  has  mystified  thousands  of  other  "music 
lovers." 

A  BOSTON  woman  complains  that  school  seats 
have  worn  out  three  pairs  of  pants  (her  son's)  in 
three  months.  "Is  a  wheeze  about  the  seat  of 
learning  too  obvious?"  queries  Genevieve.  Oh, 
quite  too,  my  dear ! 

MR.  FREDERICK  HARRISON  at  89  observes: 
"May  my  end  be  early,  speedy,  and  peaceful !  I  re 
gret  nothing  done  or  said  in  my  long  and  busy  life. 
I  withdraw  nothing,  and,  as  I  said  before,  am  not 
conscious  of  any  chan'ge  in  mind.  In  youth  I  was 
[102] 


called  a  revolutionary;  in  old  age  I  am  called  a 
reactionary;  both  names  alike  untrue.  ...  I  ask 
nothing.  I  seek  nothing.  I  fear  nothing.  I  have 
done  and  said  all  that  I  ever  could  have  done  and 
said.  There  is  nothing  more.  I  am  ready,  and 
await  the  call." 

A  very  good  prose  version  of  Henley's  well 
known  poem.  As  for  regretting  nothing,  a  man 
at  forty  would  be  glad  to  unsay  and  undo  many 
things.  At  seventy,  and  decidedly  at  eighty-nine, 
these  things  have  so  diminished  in  importance 
that  it  is  not  worth  while  withdrawing  them. 

A  DAY  WITH  LORD  DID-MORE. 

"Mr.  Hearst  is  the  home  brew;  no  other  hope" 

—The  Trib. 

At  his  usual  hour  Lord  Did-More  rose — 
Renewed  completely  by  repose — 
His  pleasant  duty  to  rehearse 
Of  oiling  up  the  universe. 

Casting  a  glance  aloft,  he  saw 
That,  yielding  to  a  natural  law, 
The  sun  obediently  moved 
Precisely  as  he  had  approved. 

If  mundane  things  would  only  run 

As  regularly  as  the  Sun ! 

But  Earth's  affairs,  less  nicely  planned, 

Require  Lord  Did-More's  guiding  hand. 

[103] 


This  day,  outside  Lord  Did-More's  door, 
There  waited  patiently  a  score 
Of  diplomats  from  far  and  near 
Who  sought  his  sympathetic  ear. 

Each  brought  to  him,  that  he  might  scan, 
The  latest  governmental  plan, 
And  begged  of  him  a  word  or  two 
Approving  what  it  hoped  to  do. 

Lord  Did-More  nodded,  smiled  or  frowned, 
Some  word  of  praise  or  censure  found, 
Withheld  or  added  his  "O.  K." 
And  sent  the  ministers  away. 

These  harmonized  and  sent  away, 
Lord  Did-More  finished  up  his  day 
By  focusing  his  cosmic  brain 
On  our  political  campaign. 

And  night  and  morning,  thro'  the  land, 
The  public  prints  at  his  command 
Proclaimed,  in  type  that  fairly  burst, 
The  doughty  deeds  of  Did-More  Hearst. 

THE  SECOND  POST. 

[From  a  genius  in  Geneseo,  111.] 

Dear  sir:  I  am  the  champion  Cornhusker  I 
have  given  exhibitions  in  different  places  and  thea 
ter  managers  and  moveing  picture  men  have  asked 
me  why  I  dont  have  my  show  put  into  moves 
(Film).  I  beleave  it  would  make  a  very  inter- 
[104] 


esting  Picture.  We  could  have  it  taken  right  in 
the  Cornfield  and  also  on  the  stage.  It  would 
be  very  interesting  for  farmer  boys  and  would  be 
a  good  drawing  card  in  small  towns.  I  beleave 
we  could  make  1000  feet  of  it  by  showing  me 
driveing  into  the  field  with  my  extra  made  wagon, 
then  show  them  my  style  and  speed  of  husking  and 
perheps  let  a  common  husker  husk  a  while.  I 
could  also  give  my  exibition  on  the  stage  in  a 
theater  includeing  the  playing  of  six  or  eight  dif 
ferent  Instruments.  For  instence  when  I  plow 
with  a  traction  engine  or  tresh  I  also  lead  bands 
and  Orchestra's. 

THERE  is  a  stage  in  almost  everybody's  musical 
education  when  Chopin's  Funeral  March  seems 
the  most  significant  composition  in  the  world. 

THE  two  stenogs  in  the  L  coach  were  discuss 
ing  the  opera.  "I  see,"  said  one,  "that  they're 
going  to  sing  'Flagstaff.'  "  "That's  Verdi's  latest 
opera,"  said  the  other.  "Yes,"  contributed  the 
gentleman  in  the  adjacent  seat,  leaning  forward; 
"and  the  scene  is  laid  in  Arizona." 

MR.  SHANKS  voxpops  that  traffic  should  be  re 
lieved,  not  prevented,  as  "the  automobile  is  ab 
solutely  important  in  modern  business  life." 
Now,  the  fact  is  that  the  automobile  has  become 
a  nuisance;  one  can  get  about  much  faster  and 

[105] 


cheaper  in  the  city  on  Mr.  Shanks'  w.  k.  mare. 
Life  to-day  is  scaled  to  the  automobile,  whereas, 
as  our  gossip  Andy  Rebori  contends,  it  ought  to 
be  scaled  to  the  baby  carriage.  Many  lines  of 
industry  are  short  of  labor  because  this  labor  has 
been  withdrawn  for  the  care  of  automobiles. 

"Do  you  remember,"  asks  a  fair  correspondent 
(who  protests  that  she  is  only  academically  fair), 
"when  we  used  to  read  'A  Shropshire  Lad,'  and 
A.  E.,  and  Arthur  Symons,  and  Yeats?  And  you 
used  to  print  so  many  of  the  beautiful  things  they 
wrote?"  Ah,  yes,  we  do  remember;  but  that,  my 
dear,  was  a  long,  long  time  ago,  in  the  period 
which  has  just  closed,  as  Bennett  puts  it.  How 
worth  while  those  things  used  to  seem,  and  what 
pleasant  days  those  were.  Men  say  that  they  will 
come  again.  But  men  said  that  Arthur  would 
come  again. 

OUR  method:  We  select  only  things  that  in 
terest  us,  assuming  that  other  people  will  be  inter 
ested;  if  they  are  not — why,  chacun  a  son  gout,  as 
the  cannibal  king  remarked,  adding  a  little  salt. 
We  printed  "The  Spires  of  Oxford"  a  long  time 
ago  because  it  interested  us  exceedingly. 

A  VALUED  colleague  quotes  the  emotional 
line — 

"This  is  my  own,  my  native  land!" — 


as  palliation,  if  not  justification,  for  the  "simple, 
homely,    and    comprehensive    adjuration,    'Own 
Your  Own  Home.'  '     We  acknowledge  the  home 
liness   and  comprehensiveness,  but  we  deny  the 
value  of  poetic  testimony.     Said  Dr.  Johnson: 
"Let  observation  with   extensive   view 
Survey  mankind  from  China  to  Peru," 
which,  De  Quincey  or  Tennyson  declared,  should 
have  run:     "Let  observation  with  extended  ob 
servation  observe  mankind  extensively."     Poets 
and  tautology  go  walking  like  the  Walrus  and  the 
Carpenter. 

BOLSHEVISM  OF  LONG  AGO. 

"A  radical  heaven  is  a  place  where  every  man 
does  what  he  pleases,  and  there  is  a  general  di 
vision  of  property  every  Saturday  night." — 
George  S.  Hillard  (1853). 

LULLABY. 

In  Woodman,  Wis.,  the  Hotel  Lull 
Is  where  a  man  may  rest  his  skull. 
All  care  and  fret  is  void  and  null 
When  one  puts  up  at  Hotel  Lull. 
Ah,  might  I  wing  it  as  a  gull 
Unto  the  mansion  kept  by  Lull — 
By  W.  K.  Lull,  the  w.  k.  Lull, 
Who  greets  the  guests  at  Hotel  Lull. 
[107] 


"A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever."  But  if, 
miraculously,  it  happens  in  Chicago,  it  can,  de 
spite  the  poet's  word,  "pass  into  nothingness." 
The  old  Field  Museum,  seen  beneath  a  summer 
moon,  when  the  mist  is  on  the  lake,  is  as  beauti 
ful  as  anything  on  the  earth's  crust.  Not  to  pre 
serve  the  exterior  were  a  sin  against  Beauty,  which 
is  the  unforgivable  sin. 

"LEMME  UP,  DARLING!    LEMME  UP!" 

[From  the  Detroit  Free  Press.] 

My  advertisement  of  Feb.  24  was  error.  I 
will  be  responsible  for  my  wife's  debts. 

Leo  Tyo. 

"I'LL  make  the  Line  some  day  or  jump  into 
Great  Salt  Lake,"  warns  C.  W.  O.  Pick  out  a 
soft  spot,  friend.  We  jumped  into  it  one  day  and 
sprained  an  ankle. 


[108] 


Alice  in  Cartoonland. 

i. 

HELLO !"  said  the  Hatter.  "I  haven't  seen 
you  for  a  long  time." 

"No,"  said  Alice;  "I've  been  all  over — in  Won 
derland,  in  Bookland,  in  Stageland,  and  forty 
other  lands.  People  must  be  tired  of  my  adven 
tures.  Where  am  I  now?  I  never  know." 

"In  Cartoonland,"  said  the  Hatter. 

"And  what  are  you  doing  here?"  inquired 
Alice. 

"I'm  searching  for  an  original  cartoon  idea," 
replied  the  Hatter.  "Would  you  like  to  come 
along?" 

"Ever  so  much,"  said  Alice. 

"The  first  thing  we  have  to  do  is  to  get  across 
that  chasm,"  said  the  Hatter,  pointing. 

Alice  saw  a  huge  legend  on  the  far  wall  of  the 
chasm,  and  spelled  it  out — "O-b-1-i-v-i-o-n." 

"Yes,  Oblivion,"  said  the  Hatter.  "That's 
where  they  dump  defeated  candidates  and  other 
undesirables.  Come  on,  we  can  cross  a  little  be 
low  here." 

He  indicated  a  thin  plank  that  lay  across  the 
Chasm  of  Oblivion. 

"Will  it  hold  us?"  said  Alice. 

"It  has  held  the  G.  O.  P.  Elephant  and  the 
Democratic  Donkey,  and  all  sorts  of  people  and 
[109] 


things.  Let's  hurry  over,  as  here  comes  the 
Elephant  now,  with  Mr.  Taft  riding  it,  and  the 
plank  might  give  way." 

II. 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  Hatter,  "here  is  my 
hat  store." 

There  were  only  two  kinds  in  the  window — 
square  paper  caps  and  high  silk  hats.  Alice  had 
never  seen  paper  caps  before. 

"They're  worn  by  the  laboring  man,"  said  the 
Hatter;  "but  you  never  see  them  outside  of  Car- 
toonland.  The  plug  hats  are  for  Capitalists.  I 
also  keep  whiskers;  siders  for  Capital  and  ordi 
nary  for  Labor." 

"O,  there's  a  railroad  train!"  said  Alice,  sud 
denly. 

"No  use  taking  that  train,"  said  the  Hatter; 
"it  doesn't  go.  Did  you  ever  see  an  engine  like 
that  outside  Cartoonland?  And  even  if  it  did 
work  we  shouldn't  get  very  far,  as  the  rock  Ob 
struction  is  always  on  the  track." 

"I'd  just  as  soon  walk,"  said  Alice. 

III. 

"Mercy!  there's  a  giant!"  exclaimed  Alice. 
"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  the  Hatter;  "he's 
perfectly  good  natured." 

"What  an  awful-looking  creature !"  said  Alice, 
[no] 


"He's  awfully  out  of  drawing,"  said  the  Hat 
ter,  critically;  "but,  then,  almost  everything  in 
Cartoonland  is.  It's  the  idea  that  counts." 

"You  said  you  were  searching  for  an  original 
idea,"  Alice  reminded  him. 

"But  I  don't  expect  to  find  one,"  the  Hatter 
replied.  "You  see,  it  wouldn't  be  any  use;  no 
body  would  understand  it.  People  like  the  old 
familiar  things,  you  know." 

"Still,  we  might  happen  on  one,"  said  Alice. 
"Let's  walk  along." 


IV. 

Suddenly  a  door  opened,  and  a  great  quantity 
of  rubbish  was  swept  briskly  into  the  street. 

"That's  the  New  Broom,"  said  the  Hatter. 
"There's  been  another  election.  Evidently  the 
Democrats  won,  as  there  goes  the  Donkey,  wav 
ing  his  ears  and  hee-hawing." 

"Oh,  is  that  a  fruit  store?"  asked  Alice. 

"No;  the  Republican  headquarters,"  repliied 
the  Hatter.  "That  huge  cornucopia  you  see  is  a 
symbol  of  Prosperity.  Prosperity  in  Cartoonland 
is  always  represented  by  a  horn  of  plenty  with  a 
pineapple  in  the  muzzle.  You've  heard  the  ex 
pression,  'The  pineapple  of  prosperity.'  " 

"No,"  said  Alice,   "but  I've  heard  about  the 
'pineapple  of  politeness.'  " 
[ni] 


"That,"  said  the  Hatter,  uis  something  else 
again." 

v. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  collection  of  factories, 
the  tall  chimneys  of  which  poured  out  smoke  in 
great  volume. 

"Those  are  the  Smoking  Stacks  of  Industry," 
said  the  Hatter. 

"What  do  they  manufacture  here?"  asked 
Alice. 

"Cartoonatums,"  said  the  Hatter.  "A  car- 
toonatum,"  he  explained,  "is  a  combination  of 
wheels,  rods,  cogs,  hoppers,  cranks,  etc.,  which 
sometimes  looks  like  a  sausage  grinder  and  some 
times  like  a  try-your-weight  machine.  It  couldn't 
possibly  go,  any  more  than  the  locomotives  in 
Cartoonland. 

"Why  don't  the  Cartoonlanders  have  machines 
that  can  go?"  inquired  Alice. 

"That,"  replied  the  Hatter,  "would  require  a 
little  study  and  observation." 

VI. 

As  Alice  and  the  Hatter  walked  along  they 
passed  many  curious  things,  such  as  Wolves  in 
Sheep's  Clothing,  the  skin  of  a  Tiger  nailed  to  a 
barn  door,  St.  George  and  the  Dragon,  Father 
Knickerbocker,  barrels  of  political  mud,  a  huge 
[112] 


serpent  labeled  "Anarchy,"  a  drug  store  window 
full  of  bottles  of  Political  Dope  and  boxes  of 
Political  Pills,  an  orchard  of  Political  Plum  Trees, 
and  other  objects  which  the  Hatter  said  were  as 
old  as  the  hills.  "I'm  afraid  there's  nothing  to 
hold  us  here,"  he  declared. 

Alice's  attention  was  suddenly  attracted  by 
a  little  girl  in  a  thin  and  ragged  dress  who,  with 
an  empty  basket  on  her  arm,  was  gazing  wist 
fully  at  the  goodies  in  a  bakeshop  window. 

"She  represents  Poverty,"  said  the  Hatter. 
"When  she  isn't  staring  at  a  bakeshop  she's  look 
ing  at  a  proclamation  by  the  ice  trust,  or  some 
thing  like  that." 

Alice  spoke  to  the  child  and  learned  that  she 
was  one  of  a  large  family.  Her  father,  she  said, 
was  a  New  York  cartoonist  who  one  day  had  been 
visited  by  an  Original  Idea. 

"Where  is  he?"  cried  the  Hatter  excitedly. 

"He  dropped  dead!"  replied  the  child,  weeping 
bitterly. 

"Good  night!"  said  the  Hatter,  and  walked 
away. 


A  LINE-O'-TYPE  OR  TWO 

Quicquid  agunt  homines  nostri  est  farrago   libelli. 

— Juvenal. 


QUESTION  : 

WHO  is  this  Juvenal  wheezer? 
Readers  inquire  every  day. 
Give  us  a  line  on  the  geezer — 

What  is  he  trying  to  say? 
Do  you  expect  us  to  get  stuff 

That  is  clear  over  our  bean  ? 
What  is  that  "Quicquid,  et  cet."  stuff? 
WTiat  does  the  gibberish  mean  ? 

REPLY: 

If  you're  too  lazy  to  look  for 

Juvenal's  name  in  the  Die, 
Why  should  /  go  to  the  book  for 

Such  a  cantankerous  kick  ? 
Still,  to  avoid  all  dissension, 

And  my  good  nature  to  prove, 
I  am  quite  willing  to  mention 

One  or  two  things  about  Juve. 

Juve  was  a  Roman  humdinger, 

Writer  of  satires  and  sich. 
He  was  consid'rable  stinger — 

Rare  were  his  sallies  and  rich. 

[115] 


High  his  poetic  position, 

Lofty  his  manner  and  brow; 
Lived  in  the  time  of  Domitian ; — 

That's  all  I  think  of  just  now. 

As  for  that  "Quicquid,  and  so  forth," 

I  have  but  space  to  advise 
If  you'd  decipher  it  go  forth, 

Look  in  the  Die  and  be  wise. 
Make  it  a  point,  in  your  reading, 

Always  to  look  up  what's  new. 
That  is  a  simple  proceeding: 

Why  not  adopt  it  ?    7  do. 

IT  HAS  BEEN  DONE. 

Sir :  Broke  friend  wife's  favorite  Victrola  rec 
ord.  Told  her  about  it.  She  came  back  with, 
"Well,  that's  the  only  record  you  ever  broke." 
Do  you  think  she  was  bawling  me  out  or  was  she 
paying  me  a  compliment?  E.  P.  P. 

"WiLL  the  Devil  complete  the  capture  of  the 
modern  church?"  inquires  the  Rev.  Mr.  Straton 
of  New  York.  Why  is  it  assumed  that  the  Old 
Boy  is  attempting  to  capture  it?  People  go  to  the 
Devil ;  the  Devil  doesn't  have  to  chase  after  them. 
The  notion  that  Old  Nick  is  always  around  drum 
ming  up  business  is  an  example  of  the  inordinate 
vanity  of  man. 

[116] 


DEAN  JONES  of  Yale  is  credited  with  this  defi 
nition  of  freedom  of  speech:  "The  liberty  to  say 
what  you  think  without  thinking  what  you  say." 

"ON  SUCH  A  NIGHT  .  .  ." 

[From  the  Bethany,   Mo.,    Clipper.] 

After  the  serving  of  light  refreshments  the 
young  ladies  repaired  to  the  third  floor  and 
"tripped  the  light  fantastic"  while  music  waved 
eternal  wands.  And  then  the  whole  company 
flocked  in  and  enjoyed  the  beauties  of  this  grand 
home,  lingering  and  chatting,  with  the  enchanted 
spell  of  the  glorious  evening  still  strong  upon  each 
one,  until  the  crescent  moon  had  veiled  her  face 
and  the  vain  young  night  trembled  over  her  own 
beauty.  And  then  with  expressed  regrets  that 
the  hours  had  flown  so  rapidly  the  guests  bade  a 
fair  good  night  to  their  charming  hostess. 

TEMPERATURE. 

An  idea  pushed  along  to  us  by  L.  O.  K.  has  no 
doubt  been  seriously  considered  by  the  Congress. 
It  is  to  move  the  tubes  of  all  thermometers  up  an 
inch  on  the  scale  every  fall,  and  down  an  inch  in 
the  spring.  This  would  make  our  winter  tem 
perature  much  more  endurable,  and  our  summer 
temp,  delightful. 

["71 


LET  US  PERISH,  RATHER,  BY  DEGREES. 

Sir:  Before  the  Congress  adopts  the  idea  of 
L.  O.  K.  to  move  the  tubes  of  all  thermometers  up 
an  inch  on  the  scale  every  fall  and  down  an  inch 
in  the  spring,  I  rush  to  inquire  how  shall  we,  who 
possess  only  a  two  inch  thermometer,  on  which 
an  inch  covers  at  least  70  degrees,  be  able  to  with 
stand  the  extremes  of  climate?  May  I  not  sug 
gest  that  the  Congress  be  petitioned  to  make  the 
move  by  degrees  instead  of  inches,  and  thus  avoid 
great  suffering?  L.  J.  R. 

You  may  have  noted — nearly  everybody  else 
did — that  Jean  Paige  and  Albert  Smith  were  mar 
ried  in  Paris,  111.,  uat  the  farm  residence  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wigfall  O'Hair."  The  Academy  of 
Immortals  attended  in  a  body. 

COMMUTERS  discuss  many  interesting  topics,  in 
cluding  the  collection  of  garbage.  Mac  was  re 
minded  of  a  Michigan  lady  of  his  acquaintance 
who,  with  a  new  maid,  was  trying  to  pull  off  a  very 
correct  luncheon.  In  the  midst  of  it  the  maid  ap 
peared  and  said,  uOh,  Mrs.  Kennedy,  the  gar 
bage  man  wants  a  dime."  The  hostess,  without 
batting  an  eye,  replied:  "We  are  having  com 
pany  to-day.  Better  get  a  quarter's  worth." 

"  (MY  mind  is  open  on  the  question  of  garbage 
disposal/  Alderman  Link  declared." 
You  know  what  he  means. 
[118] 


HYMN  OF  HATE. 
(Reprinted  at  request  of  Mr.  Hoover.) 

Cranberry  pie,  or  apricot — 
We  love  them  not,  we  hate  them  not. 
Of  all  the  victuals  in  pot  or  plate, 
There's  only  one  that  we  loathe  and  hate. 
We  love  a  hundred,  we  hate  but  one, 
And  that  we'll  hate  till  our  race  is  run — 

BREAD  PUDDING! 

It's  known  to  you  all,  it's  known  to  you  all, 
It  casts  a  gloom,  and  it  casts  a  pall ; 
By  whatso  name  they  mark  the  mess, 
You  take  one  taste  and  you  give  one  guess. 
Come,  let  us  stand  in  the  Wailing  Place, 
A  vow  to  register,  face  to  face: 
We  will  never  forego  our  hate 
Of  that  tasteless  fodder  we  execrate — 

BREAD  PUDDING! 

Cranberry  pie,  or  apricot — 
Some  folks  like  'em,  and  some  folks  not. 
They're  not  so  bad  if  they're  made  just  right, 
Tho'  they  don't  enkindle  our  appetite. 
But  you  we  hate  with  a  lasting  hate, 
And  never  will  we  that  hate  abate : 
Hate  of  the  tooth  and  hate  of  the  gum, 
Hate  of  palate  and  hate  of  turn, 
Hate  of  the  millions  who've  choked  you  down, 
In  country  kitchen  or  house  in  town. 
We  love  a  thousand,  we  hate  but  one, 
With  a  hate  more  hot  than  the  hate  of  Hun — 
BREAD  PUDDING! 


SINCE  prohibition  came  in,  says  the  Onion 
King,  Americans  have  taken  to  eating  onions.  As 
Lincoln  prophesied,  this  nation  is  having  a  new 
breath  of  freedom. 

ASKED  what  the  racket  was  all  about,  the  in 
spired  waiter  at  the  Woman's  Athletic  Club  re 
plied,  "It's  the  Vassar  illumini." 

IN  a  soi-disant  democracy  "personal  liberty" 
is  an  empty  phrase,  bursting  with  nothingness. 
Personal  liberty  is  to  be  enjoyed  only  under  a 
benevolent  autocracy.  It  is  contained  wholly  in 
the  code  of  King  Pausole : 

"I. — Ne  nuis  pas  a  ton  voisin. 

"II. — Ceci  bien  compris,  fais  ce  qu'il  te  plait" 

THERE  are  many  definitions  of  "optimist"  and 
"pessimist."  As  good  as  another  is  one  that  the 
Hetman  of  the  Boul  Mich  Cossacks  is  fond  of 
quoting:  "An  optimist  is  a  man  who  sees  a  great 
light  where  there  is  none.  A  pessimist  is  a  man 
who  comes  along  and  blows  out  the  light." 

"Two-PiANO  playing  is  more  or  less  of  a  sport, 
as  the  gardeners  say,"  observes  Mr.  Aldrich  in 
the  New  York  Times.  And  we  are  reminded  of 
Philip  Hale's  review  of  a  two-piano  recital.  "We 
have  heard  these  two  gentlemen  separately  with 
out  being  greatly  stirred,"  he  said  in  effect,  "but 
[120] 


their  combination  was  like  bringing  together  the 
component  parts  of  a  seidlitz  powder." 

WRITES  H.  D.,  at  present  in  Loz  Onglaze: 
"Alphonse  Daudet  says  that  the  sun  is  the  real 
liar,  that  it  alone  is  responsible  for  all  the  exag 
gerations  of  its  favorite  children  of  the  south." 
And  you  know  what  the  sun  does  to  Californians. 

THE  Paris  decision  suggests  a  neat  form  letter 
for  collection  lawyers:  "We  hope  that  you  will 
not  place  us  under  the  necessity  of  envisaging  the 
grave  situation  which  will  be  created  if  you  persist 
in  failing  to  meet  this  obligation." 

FOR  WHICH  MUCH  THANKS. 

Sir:  The  Heraminer  relates  that  James  K. 
Hackett  has  refused  to  play  the  title  role  in 
"Mary,  Queen  of  Scots."  Gosh,  but  this  is  a 
relief!  G.  D.  C. 

THE  SECOND  POST. 

[An  order  for  a  picture.] 

Dear  Sirs :  I  am  sending  you  two  photos  and 
$5.  I  want  you  to  have  this  work  done  as  per 
fect  as  possible,  there  is  a  little  alteration  which 
I  want  made,  which  you  will  see  as  follows.  Take 
the  man  from  the  single  picture,  which  is  my 
father,  and  paint  him  standing  behind  my  mother 
which  is  setting  in  the  chair  on  the  grupe  picture, 

[121] 


or  put  him  setting  in  another  chair  beside  the 
girl  on  the  same  picture  whichever  you  think  will 
look  the  best  to  make  a  good  picture,  but  I  want 
the  four  persons  in  one  big  good  picture.  You 
will  see  that  the  picture  has  a  redish  flair,  please 
try  to  get  the  others  without  any  of  that,  also  you 
will  see  that  our  eyes  in  the  grupe  picture  is 
raised  too  high,  please  fix  them  looking  natural, 
also  put  our  eyebrows  thick  and  natural,  and  make 
our  faces  as  pleasant  looking  as  possible,  also  you 
will  notice  in  the  picture  that  the  girls  dress  is 
not  sitting  good  from  the  waist  down,  please 
fix  that  setting  smoothly  as  the  breeze  was  blow 
ing  so  hard  in  the  yard  that  I  could  not  keep  my 
skirt  setting  in  good  shape  around  me,  so  please 
rectefy  all  these  foults  which  I  mention  and  make 
me  a  good  picture  as  I  want  it  to  keep  in  memory 
of  my  family  as  we  are  now;  you  may  put  it 
in  rich  brown  or  sepia  pastel  whichever  you  think 
suits  the  picture  the  best,  let  the  photoes  be  en 
larged  but  full  stature  the  same  as  the  origenal. 

A  FIG  FOR  CEREMONY! 

[From   the  East  Peoria  Post] 

New  Year's  Day  our  young  friends,  Miss  Hat- 
tie  Cochran  and  Mr.  Elias  King,  without  any 
ceremony  at  all  were  united  in  the  bonds  of  holy 
wedlock. 

[122] 


THE  SECOND  POST. 

[Received  by  the  Chief  of  Police  of  Wichita,  Kas.] 

Der  Sir :  I  am  writing  you  to  know  if  you 
have  seen  any  thing  of  my  wife  in  Wichita.  She 
run  off  from  me  and  a  feller  told  me  he  seen 
her  in  Wichita  having  a  big  time.  She  is  kinder 
Red  Headed  tolerable  tall  and  has  got  a  prety 
Bust  in  fact  she  is  perfectly  made  up  and  you  mite 
know  of  her  by  a  Thing  she  has  got  tattooed  on 
her  rite  thigh  kindly  in  front  of  her  leg.  I  think 
they  aimed  it  for  a  Hart  with  L.  M.  in  it  but 
they  kinder  made  a  bum  job  of  it  and  it  is  hard 
to  make  out  what  it  is.  If  you  here  of  her  let 
me  know  it  at  wounced  and  I  will  come  rite  up  fur 
her  fur  I  want  to  See  her  bad.  eny  thing  you  let 
me  no  Surtenly  will  be  appreciate.  Yours  truly, 
(Name  on  File). 

P.  S. — I  may  come  rite  to  Wichita  myself  and 
see  if  I  can  find  her,  but  you  keep  a  look  out  fur 
her. 

.  .  .  WHAT  may  interest  you  is  that  one  of 
the  Fords  was  owned  by  A.  F.  Fender. 

OPEN  THE  GATES! 

Sir:  That  sound  of  hoof-beats  heralds  the  ar 
rival,  to  join  the  Immortals,  of  Royal  Ryder,  a 
mounted  copper  in  San  Francisco. 

G.  GRAY  SHUS. 


THANKS  to  fifteen  or  twenty  observant  trav 
elers  for  the  info  that  the  manager  of  the  drug 
department  of  the  Alexander  Drug  Co.  in  Omaha 
is  George  Salzgiver. 

MISTER  TOBIN,  EDUCATOR. 

A  gentle,  kindly  man  is  he, 
The  soul  of  generosity ; 
Our  little  ones  he  gladly  gives 
The  right  to  split  infinitives. 

The  boys  and  girls  who  go  to  school 
Approve  of  Mister  Tobin's  rule. 
They  find  no  cause  to  make  complaint 
At  learning  words  like  das't  and  ain't. 

Two  negatives  has  every  boy, 
And  uses  them  with  pride  and  joy 
And  every  girl  has  utmost  skill 
In  interchanging  shall  and  will. 

Those  noble  boys  and  girls  decry 

The  priggish  use  of  "It  is  I." 

If  you  should  ask,  "Who  was  with  he?" 

They'd  answer  simply,  "It  was  me." 

PANTALETTA. 

IT  is  not  nice  of  readers  to  try  to  take  advan 
tage  of  our  innocence.  M.  L.  J.,  for  example, 
writes  out  the  valve-handle  wheeze  in  longhand 


and  assures  us  that  "it  is  an  exact  copy  of  a  letter 
received  by  a  stove  manufacturing  company  in  St. 
Louis,  from  a  customer  in  Arkansas." 

VARIANT  OF  THE  VALVE-HANDLE  WHEEZE. 

(Received  by  a  drug  concern.) 

GENTLEMEN:  Your  postal  received,  regard 
ing  an  order  which  you  sent  us  and  which  you 
have  not,  as  yet,  received. 

Upon  referring  to  our  records,  we  fail  to  find 
any  record  of  ever  having  received  the  order  in 
question.  The  last  order  received  from  your 
firm  was  for  a  pair  of  flat  cylindrical  lenses  to 
match  broken  sample  you  enclosed.  This  was 
taken  care  of  the  same  day  as  received  and  sent 
on  to  you,  properly  addressed.  We  would  sug 
gest  that  you  enter  tracer  with  the  postoffice  de 
partment  in  endeavor  to  locate  the  package. 

Regretting  that  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  give 
you  this  information,  we  remain,  etc. 

P.  S.  Since  writing  the  above,  the  order  in 
question  was  received  at  this  office — this  morn 
ing. 

THE  VALVE-HANDLE  SNEEZE. 

Sir :    The  handle  on  the  valve  is  missing,  and  I 
can't  turn  off  the  radiator.     The  room  was  hot, 
and  I've  had  to  "open  wide  the  windows,  open 
[125] 


wide  the  door."  The  resultant  draft  has  just 
brought  a  series  of  "kerchoos"  out  of  me.  Valve- 
handle  sneezes,  I  called  them.  SIM  NIC. 

Miss  EMILY  DAVIS  weds  Mrs.  Charles  Par- 
mele. — Wilmington,  N.  C.,  Dispatch. 

Why  don't  the  men  propose,  mama,  why  don't 
the  men  propose? 

THE  SANDS  OF  TIME. 

Whenever  I  observe  a  quartette  of  commuters 
at  cards  I  regret  that  the  hours  I  gave  to  master 
ing  whist  were  not  given  instead  to  the  study  of 
Greek. 

"THE  military  salute,"  says  our  neighbor  on 
the  left,  "is  a  courtesy  of  morale  when  it  proceeds 
from  one  fighting  man  to  another."  This  was 
impressed  in  1918  upon  a  colored  recruit  who 
was  hauled  up  for  not  saluting  his  s.  o.  His  ex 
planation  was,  "Ah  thought  you  and  me  had  got 
so  well  acquainted  Ah  didn't  have  to  salute  you 


no  moV 


THE  TRUTH  AT  LAST! 

Sir:  Socrates  and  Epictetus  did  not  learn 
Greek  at  81 — they  were  Greeks.  It  was  the 
Roman  Cato  who  began  to  study  Greek  at  80. 

C.  E.  C. 
[126] 


Now  that  we  all  know  it  was  neither  Socrates 
nor  Epictetus  who  learned  Greek  at  81  (because, 
you  see,  being  Greeks  they  did  not  have  to  study 
the  language),  you  may  like  to  know  something 
about  Julius  Cassar.  He  was,  narrates  a  high 
school  paper,  "the  noblest  of  English  kings.  He 
learned  Latin  late  in  life  in  order  to  translate  an 
ecclesiastical  work  into  the  vernaculary  of  the 
common  people." 

WE  are  reminded  by  our  learned  friend,  W.  F. 
Y.,  that  Socrates  began  at  64  to  study  English, 
but  had  to  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job.  "The  fact,"  he 
says,  "is  interestingly  set  forth  in  Montefiori's 
'Eccentricities  of  Genius.'  " 

THE  attitude  of  our  universities  and  other 
quasi-educational  institutions  toward  Greek  is 
that  8 1  is  the  proper  age  for  beginning  the  study 
of  it. 

BREATHING  defiance  of  the  Eighteenth  Amend 
ment,  Jay  Rye  and  Jewel  Bacchus  were  married 
in  Russellville,  Ark.,  last  Sunday. 

THE  Wetmore  Shop,  on  Belmont  avenue,  ad 
vertises  "Everything  for  the  baby." 

Sir :  I  feel  that  the  time  has  come  to  call  your 
attention  to  a  letter  received  from  C.  A.  Neuen- 
hahn,  of  St.  Louis.  It  concludes  CAN/IT. 

A.  E.  W. 
[127] 


PERSONS  who  cannot  compose  200  words  of 
correct  and  smooth  running  English  will  write  to 
a  newspaper  to  criticize  a  "long  and  labored  edi 
torial."  A  labored  editorial  is  one  with  which 
a  reader  does  not  agree. 

THINK  OF  IT! 

Take  any  life  you  choose  and  study  it. 

Take  Edgar  Lee  Masters': 

He  is  a  lawyer  and  a  poet ; 

Or  perhaps  it  is  best  to  call  him 

A  lawyer-poet, 

Or  a  poet  who  was  never  much  at  law, 

Or  t'other  way  around  if  you  prefer. 

Whichever  way  'tis  put,  the  fact  remains 

He  wrote  a  poem  that  now  sells 

For  fifty  cents  plus  four  beans. 

Think  of  it! 

Four  dollars  and  fifty  cents, 

Or,  if  you  prefer, 

$4-50. 

And  Elenor  Murray  did  not  have  a  cent  on  her 

When  they  found  her  body  on  the  banks 

Of  the  Squeehunk  river. 

And  the  poem  is  out  of  stock  at  half  the  stores. 
And  Villon  starved  and  Keats,  Keats — 
Where  am  I  ?    I  don't  know. 

YSEULT  POTTS. 


THE  headline,  "U.  S.  to  Seize  Wet  Doctors," 
has  led  many  readers  to  wonder  whether  the  gov 
ernment  will  get  after  the  nurses  next. 

WE  have  always  been  in  sympathy  with  Presi 
dent  Wilson's  idea  of  democracy.  He  expressed 
it  perfectly  when  he  was  president  of  Princeton. 
"Unless  I  have  entire  power,"  said  he,  "how  can 
I  make  this  a  democratic  college?" 

THE  complete  skeptic  is  skeptical  about  skep 
ticism;  and  there  is  one  day  in  the  round  of  days, 
this  one,  when  he  may  lay  aside  his  glasses, 
faintly  tinted  blue,  and  put  on  instead,  not  the 
rose-colored  specs  of  Dr.  Pangloss,  but  a  glass 
that  blurs  somewhat  the  outlines  of  men  and 
things;  and  these  he  may  wear  until  midnight. 
The  only  objects  which  this  glass  does  not  blur  are 
children.  Seen  through  blue,  or  rose,  or  white, 
children  are  always  the  same.  They  have  not 
changed  since  Bethlehem. 

A  VERY  good  motto  for  any  family  is  that  which 
the  Keiths  of  Scotland  selected  a-many  years  ago : 
"They  say.  What  say  they?  Let  them  say."  It 
might  even  do  for  the  top  of  this  Totem-Pole  of 
Tooralay. 

A  FREQUENT  question  since  the  war  began  is, 
"Why  are  there  so  many  damn  fools  in  the  facul 
ties  of  American  universities?"     Chancellor  Wil- 
[129] 


Hams  of  Wooster  turns  light  on  the  mystery. 
Eminent  educators  who  are  also  damn  fools  are 
hypermorons,  who  are  intellectual  but  not  truly 
intelligent.  He  says  of  these  queer  beings: 

"The  hypermoron  may  laugh  in  imitation  of 
others,  but  he  has  no  original  humor  and  very 
little  original  wit.  The  cause  for  this  is  that 
original  wit  and  humor  require  unusual  combina 
tions  of  factors ;  but  the  very  nature  of  the  hyper- 
moron  is  that  he  does  not  arrange  and  perceive 
such  combinations.  When  the  hypermoron  does 
cause  laughter  from  some  speech  or  action,  usu 
ally  he  resents  it.  But  when  a  normal  man  un 
consciously  does  or  says  something  laughable,  he 
himself  shares  in  making  sport  of  himself. 
Though  at  times  amiable,  the  hypermoron  in 
variably  takes  himself  so  seriously  as  in  a  long 
acquaintance  to  become  tiresome." 

THE  ENRAPTURED  SOCIETY  EDITOR. 

[From  the  Charlotte,  Ky.,  Chronicle.] 

The  lovely  and  elegant  home  of  that  crown 
prince  of  hospitality,  the  big  hearted  and  noble 
souled  Ab.  Weaver,  was  a  radiant  scene  of  en 
chanting  loveliness,  for  Cupid  had  brought  one 
of  his  finest  offerings  to  the  court  of  Hymen,  for 
the  lovable  Miss  Maude,  the  beautiful  daughter 
of  Mr.  Weaver  and  his  refined  and  most  excellent 
wife,  who  is  a  lady  of  rarest  charms  and  sweetest 
[130] 


graces,  dedicated  her  life's  ministry  to  Dr.  James 
E.  Hobgood,  the  brilliant  and  gifted  and  talented 
son  of  that  ripe  scholar  and  renowned  educator, 
the  learned  Prof.  Hobgood,  the  very  able  and 
successful  president  of  the  Oxford  Female  college. 

THE  MISCHIEVOUS  MAKE-UP  MAN. 

[From  the  Markesan,  Wis.,  Herald.] 

It  is  a  wise  man  who  knows  when  he  has  made 
a  fool  of  himself. 

A  baby  boy  was  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emil 
Zimmerman  of  Mackford  yesterday. 

WHY  THE  MAKE-UP  MAN  LEFT  TOWN. 

[From  the  Grinnell  Review.] 

Born,  April  19,  to  Professor  and  Mrs.  J.  P. 
Ryan,  a  daughter. 

This  experience  suggests  that  simple  scientific 
experiments  performed  by  college  students  would 
furnish  a  very  interesting  program  of  entertain 
ment  in  any  community. 

COOL,  INDEED! 

[From  the  Tuttle,   N.   D.,   Star.] 

At  the  burning  of  a  barn  in  Steele  recently,  our 
superintendent  displayed  some  nerve  and  pluck. 
Miss  Sherman  did  not  wait  for  the  men  to  get 
there  but  hastened  to  the  barn  without  stopping 


to  dress,  and  in  bare  feet  untied  the  horses  be 
fore  they  had  become  unmanageable  thus  saving 
them  with  little  trouble.  There  is  not  a  man,  we 
venture  to  say,  in  all  Steele  but  would  have 
stopped  to  put  on  his  pants  before  venturing  out 
into  the  crisp  air,  but  she  did  not,  her  whole 
thought  being  of  the  dumb  animals  imperiled,  and 
it  was,  indeed,  a  nervy  and  cool-headed  perform 
ance. 

RHYMED  DEVOTION. 

[Robert  Louis   Stevenson  to  his  wife.] 

When  my  wife  is  far  from  me 
The  undersigned  feels  all  at  sea. 

R.  L.  S. 

I  was  as  good  as  deaf 
When  separate  from  F. 

I  am  far  from  gay 
When  separate  from  A. 

I  loathe  the  ways  of  men 
When  separate  from  N.. 

Life  is  a  murky  den 
When  separate  from  N. 

My  sorrow  rages  high 
When  separate  from  Y. 

And  all  things  seem  uncanny 
When  separate  from  Fanny. 


LACKING  the  equipment  of  the  monk  in  Dau- 
det's  tale,  an  amateur  distiller  is  gauging  his  out 
put  with  an  instrument  used  for  testing  the  fluid 
in  his  motor  car's  radiator.  "Yesterday,"  reports 
P.  D.  P.,  uhe  confided  to  me  that  he  had  some 
thirty  below  zero  stuff." 

FISH  talk  to  each  other,  Dr.  Bell  tells  the  Geo 
graphic  society;  a  statement  which  no  one  will 
doubt  who  has  ever  seen  a  pair  of  goldfish  in 
earnest  conversation. 

ACCORDING  to  Dr.  Eliot,  Americans  are  more 
and  more  becoming  subject  to  herd  impulses, 
gregarious  impulses,  common  emotions,  and  he  is 
considerably  annoyed.  Heaven  be  praised  if  what 
he  says  be  true !  He  would  have  individuality 
released;  which  is  precisely  what  we  do  not  want. 
Americans  are  not  individuals,  and  they  are  not 
free;  but  they  think  they  are.  Therefore  is 
America,  in  these  troublous  times,  an  island  in 
chaos,  where  civilization,  like  Custer,  will  make 
its  last  stand. 

DOCTORS  disagree  as  to  whether  70  degrees  is 
the  proper  temperature  for  an  apartment.  This 
will  intrigue  a  friend  of  ours  who,  preferring  60 
degrees  himself,  is  obliged  to  maintain  a  tempera 
ture  of  almost  80  because  of  his  mother-in-law. 

[133] 


"WOMEN,"  says  Dr.  Ethel  Smyth,  of  London 
(perhaps  you  know  Ethel),  "women  have  un 
doubtedly  invaluable  work  to  do  as  composers." 
Quite  so.  And  any  time  they  are  ready  to  begin 
we'll  sit  up  and  take  notice. 

SH-H-H  !  On  Main  street  in  Buffalo,  near  the 
Hotel  Iroquois,  you  can  have  "Tattooing  Done 
Privately  Inside." 

SHALL  we  not  revise  Shakespeare: 
The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough 
If  she  unmask  her  beauty  on  the  Boul. 

A  NEW  FIRM  IN  FISH. 
[From  the  Kearney  Neb.,  Democrat.] 

Fresh  Smoked  Finn  &  Haddies  at  Keller's 
Market. 

OUR  interest  in  baseball  has  waned,  but  we  still 
can  watch  workmen  on  a  skyscraper  throwing  and 
catching  red-hot  rivets. 

THE  dinosaur,  having  two  sets  of  brains  (as  we 
once  pointed  out  in  imperishable  verse),  was  able 
to  reason  a  -priori  and  a  posteriori  with  equal 
facility.  But  what  we  started  to  mention  was  an 
ad  in  the  American  Lumberman  calling  for  "a 

[134] 


good  all  around  yellow  pine  office  man  of  broad 
wholesale  experience,  well  posted  on  both  ends." 

AMONG  the  new  publications  of  Richard  G. 
Badger  we  lamp,  "Nervous  Children:  Their  Pre 
vention  and  Management." 

UNRELIEVED  pessimism  rather  shocks  us.  In 
spite  of  everything  we  are  willing  to  look  on  the 
bright  side.  We  are  willing  to  agree  that,  in 
some  previous  incarnation,  we  may  have  inhab 
ited  a  crookeder  world  than  this. 

THE  valued  News,  of  New  York,  dismisses 
lightly  the  fear  that  the  Puritan  Sabbath  will  be 
restored.  Ten  or  twenty  years  ago  people  dis 
missed  as  lightly  the  fear  that  Prohibition  would 
be  saddled  on  the  country.  On  his  way  to  the 
compulsory  Wednesday-evening  prayer  meeting,  a 
few  years  hence,  the  editor  of  the  News  will  re 
call  his  cheerful  and  baseless  prediction  in  1920. 

FIRED  by  liquor,  men  maltreat  their  wives. 
These  wretches  deserve  public  flogging;  hanging 
we're  a  compliment  to  some  of  them.  On  the 
other  hand,  men  made  emotional  by  liquor  have 
conceived  an  extravagant  fondness  for  their 
wives.  We  have  not  read  about  liquor  floating 
the  matrimonial  bark  over  the  shallows  of  domes- 

[135] 


tic  discord;  yet  men  who  have  fared  homeward 
with  unsteady  footsteps  under  the  blinking  stars, 
know  that  in  such  moments  they  are  much  more 
humane  than  in  sober  daylight;  they  are  appalled 
by  their  own  unworthiness,  and  thinking  of  their 
wives  moves  them  almost  to  tears — quite,  not 
infrequently.  They  resolve  to  become  better  hus 
bands  and  fathers.  The  spirit  of  the  wine  in 
them  captains  uan  army  of  shining  and  generous 
dreams,"  an  army  that  is  easily  routed,  an  army 
that  the  wife  too  often  puts  to  flight  with  an 
injudicious  criticism.  It  is  said  that  since  Pro 
hibition  came  in  the  cases  of  cruelty  to  wives  have 
increased  greatly  in  number.  We  do  not  disbe 
lieve  this.  Bluebeard  was  a  dry. 

WHAT  DO  YOU  SUPPOSE  HE  WANTS? 

[Received  by  Farm   Mechanics.] 

Gentlemen:  Will  you  please  send  me  a  speci 
men  copy  of  the  Farm  Mechanics.  I  would  like  a 
sample  of  the  Farm  Mechanics  very  much.  I 
sincerely  trust  that  you  will  mail  me  a  sample 
copy  of  Farm  Mechanics  as  I  want  to  see  a  speci 
men  of  your  Farm  Mechanics  very  much.  Yours 
very  truly,  etc. 

ALTHOUGH  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Hash  has  retired 
from  the  hotel  business,  Mrs.  Peter  Lunch  has 
undertaken  to  manage  the  Metropole  cafeteria 
in  Fargo,  N.  D. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Sioux  Falls 
[From  the  Sioux  Falls  Press.] 

What  if  we  don't  have  palaces,  5 

With  damp  and  musty  walls? 
We  have  the  great  Sioux  River, 
And  greater  yet,  Sioux  Falls. 

We  don't  have  to  go  abroad, 

God's  beauties  just  to  see, 

But  stay  at  home 

And  take  a  trip 

Around  Sioux  Falls  with  me. 

WE  confess  a  fondness  for  verse  like  the  fore 
going,  and  hope  some  day  to  find  a  poem  as  good 
as  that  masterpiece — 

"I've  traveled  east,  I've  traveled  west, 

I've  been  to  the  great  Montana, 
But  the  finest  place  I've  ever  seen 
Is  Attica,  Indiana." 

ANOTHER  popular  pome  of  sentiment  and  re 
flection,  heard  by  L.  M.  G.  in  Wisconsin  lumber 
camps,  is — 

"I've  traveled  east,  I've  traveled  west, 

As  far  as  the  town  of  Fargo, 
But  the  darndest  town  I  ever  struck 
Is  the  town  they  call  Chicargo." 

[137] 


"USELESS  VERBIAGE." 

[From  an  abstract  of  title.] 

"That  said  Mary  Ann  Wolcott  died  an  infant, 
2  or  3  years  old,  unmarried,  intestate,  and  that 
she  left  no  husband,  child,  or  children." 

INGENIOUS  CALIFORNIA  PARADOX. 

[From  the  Oakland  Post] 

The  Six-Minute  Ferry  route  across  the  bay  will 
take  only  eighteen  to  twenty  minutes. 

ALMOST. 

Sir :  S.  Fein  has  put  his  name  on  the  door  of 
his  orange-colored  taxicab.  Can  you  whittle  a 
wheeze  out  of  that?  R.  A.  J. 

KNUT  HAMSUN,  winner  of  the  Nobel  prize  for 
literature,  used  to  be  a  street-car  conductor  in 
Chicago.  This  is  a  hint  to  column  conductors. 
Get  a  transfer. 


The  Witch's  Holiday. 

A  TALE  FOR  CHILDREN  ONLY. 

I. 

MATTERS  had  gone  ill  all  the  day;  and,  to 
cap  what  is  learnedly  called  the  perverse- 
ness  of  inanimate  things,  it  came  on  to  rain  just 
as  the  Boy,  having  finished  his  lessons,  was  on  the 
point  of  setting  out  for  a  romp  in  the  brown  fields. 

"Isn't  it  perfectly  mean,  Mowgli?"  he  com 
plained  to  his  dog.  The  water  spaniel  wagged  a 
noncommittal  tail  and  stretched  himself  before 
the  wood  fire  with  a  deep  drawn  sigh.  The  rain 
promised  to  hold,  so  the  Boy  took  down  a  book 
and  curled  up  in  a  big  leather  chair. 

It  was  a  very  interesting  book — all  about 
American  pioneers,  trappers,  and  Indians;  and 
although  the  writer  of  it  was  a  German  traveler, 
no  American  woodsman  would  take  advantage 
of  a  worthy  German  globe  trotter  and  tell  him 
things  which  were  not  exactly  so.  For  example, 
if  you  and  a  trapper  and  a  dog  were  gathered 
about  a  campfire,  and  the  dog  were  asleep  and 
dreaming  in  his  sleep,  and  the  trapper  should 
affirm  that  if  you  tied  a  handkerchief  over  the 
head  of  a  dreaming  dog  and  afterwards  tied  it 
around  your  own  head,  you  would  have  the  dog's 
dream, — if  the  trapper  should  tell  you  this  with 

[139] 


a  perfectly  serious  face,  you  naturally  would  be 
lieve  him,  especially  if  you  were  a  German  trav 
eler. 

The  Boy  got  up  softly  and  began  the  experi 
ment.  Mowgli  opened  an  inquiring  eye,  stretched 
himself  another  notch,  and  fell  asleep  again.  His 
master  waited  five  minutes,  then  unloosed  the 
handkerchief  and  knotted  it  under  his  own  chin. 

For  a  while  Mowgli's  slumbers  were  un 
troubled  as  a  forest  pool,  his  breathing  as  regular 
as  the  tick-tock  of  the  old  wooden  clock  under 
the  stair.  Out  of  doors  the  rain  fell  sharply  and 
set  the  dead  leaves  singing.  The  wood  fire  dwin 
dled  to  a  glow.  Tick-tock!  tick-tock!  drummed 
the  ancient  timepiece.  The  Boy  yawned  and  set 
tled  deeper  in  the  leather  chair. 

Tick-tock !     Tick-tock ! 

Mowgli  was  breathing  out  of  time.  He  was 
twitching,  and  making  funny  little  smothered 
noises,  which,  if  he  were  awake,  would  probably 
be  yelps.  Something  exciting  was  going  on  in 
dreamland. 

Tick-tock !    Tick 

HULLO!    There  goes  a  woodchuck! 

II. 

The  Boy  gave  chase  across  the  fields,  only  to 
arrive,  out  of  breath,  at  the  entrance  to  a  bur 
row   down  which   the   woodchuck  had  tumbled. 
[140] 


He  had  not  a  notion  where  he  was.  He  seemed 
to  have  raced  out  of  the  world  that  he  knew  into 
one  which  was  quite  unfamiliar.  It  was  a  broad 
valley  inclosed  by  high  hills,  through  which  a 
pleasant  little  river  ran;  and  the  landscape  wore 
an  odd  aspect — the  hills  were  bluer  than  hills  usu 
ally  are,  the  trees  were  more  fantastically  fash 
ioned,  and  the  waving  grass  and  flowers  were 
more  beautiful  than  one  commonly  sees. 

"Good  morning,  young  sir !" 

On  the  other  side  of  the  stream  stood  a  tall 
man  wrapped  in  a  cloak  and  leaning  with  both 
hands  upon  a  staff.  He  was  well  past  the  middle 
years,  as  wrinkles  and  a  beard  turned  gray  gave 
evidence;  but  his  eyes  were  youthful  and  his 
cheeks  as  ruddy  as  a  farm  lad's.  His  clothing  was 
worn  and  dust-laden,  but  of  good  quality  and  un- 
patched,  and  there  was  an  air  about  him  that  said 
plainly,  "Here  is  no  common  person,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"You  are  wondering  who  I  may  be,"  he  ob 
served.  "Well,  then,  I  am  known  as  the  Knight 
of  the  Dusty  Thoroughfare." 

"A  queer  sort  of  knight,  this!"  thought  the 
Boy. 

"And  you — may  I  ask  whither  you  are  bound?" 
said  the  stranger.  "We  may  be  traveling  the 
same  road." 

The  Boy  made  answer  that  he  had  set  forth 


to  chase  a  woodchuck,  and  that  having  failed  to 
catch  it  he  had  no  better  plan  than  to  return 
home. 

At  the  word  "home"  the  Knight  put  on  a  melan 
choly  smile,  and  cutting  a  reed  at  the  river  edge 
he  fashioned  it  into  a  pipe  and  began  to  play. 
A  wonderful  tune  it  was.  Tom  the  Piper's  Son 
knew  the  way  of  it,  and  to  the  same  swinging 
melody  the  Pied  Piper  footed  the  streets  of 
Hamelin  town;  for  the  burden  of  the  tune  was 
uOver  the  Hills  and  Far  Away,"  and  the  Boy's 
feet  stirred  at  the  catch  of  it. 

"That,"  said  the- Knight,  "is  the  tune  I  have 
marched  to  for  many  a  year,  and  a  pretty  chase 
it  has  led  me."  He  put  down  the  pipe.  "Knock 
ing  about  aimlessly  does  very  well  for  an  old 
man,  but  youth  should  have  a  definite  goal.'* 

The  Boy  did  not  agree  with  this.  With  that 
magic  melody  marching  in  his  head  it  was  hey 
for  the  hills  and  the  westering  sun,  and  the  pleas 
ant  road  to  Anywhere. 

"What  lies  yonder?"  he  queried,  pointing  to  a 
deep  notch  in  the  skyline. 

"The  Kingdom  of  Rainbow's  End,"  replied  the 
Knight.  It  is  an  agreeable  territory,  and  you 
would  do  very  well  to  journey  thither.  The  King 
of  the  country  is  no  longer  young,  and  as  he  has 
nothing  to  say  about  affairs  of  state,  or  anything 
else  for  that  matter,  he  spends  his  time  tramping 

[142] 


about  from  place  to  place,  in  much  the  same  fash 
ion  as  myself." 

"And  who  governs  while  he  is  away?" 
"SHE !"  said  the  Knight  solemnly— "SHE  THAT 
BOSSES  EVERYBODY!" 

in. 

"You  see,"  said  the  Knight  of  the  Dusty  Thor 
oughfare,  "the  King  made  a  grave  mistake  some 
years  ago.  It  is  a  foolish  saying  that  when  a  man 
marries  his  troubles  begin;  but  it  is  the  law  of 
Rainbow's-End  that  when  a  man  marries  he  may 
chloroform  his  mother-in-law  or  not,  just  as  he 
pleases.  But  if  he  forfeit  the  right  he  may  never 
again  claim  it,  and  the  deuce  take  him  for  a  soft 
hearted  simpleton." 

The  Boy  thought  it  a  barbarous  law  and  so  de 
clared. 

"There  is  something  to  be  said  for  it,"  re 
turned  the  Knight.  A  mother-in-law  is  like  the 
little  girl  with  the  little  curl.  It  so  happens  that 
the  King's  mother-in-law  is  a  very  unpleasant  old 
party,  and  the  King  made  a  sad  mess  of  it  when 
he  threw  the  chloroform  bottle  out  of  the  win 
dow." 

"Tell  me  about  Rainbow's-End,"  the  Boy  en 
treated.  "Is  there  a  beautiful  Princess,  with 
many  suitors  for  her  hand?" 

"The  Princess  Aralia  is  a  very  pretty  girl,  as 

[143] 


princesses  go."  The  Knight  opened  a  locket  at 
tached  to  a  long  gold  chain  and  exhibited  an  ex 
quisite  miniature.  "I  don't  mind  saying,"  said  he, 
"that  the  Princess  Aralia  and  I  are  on  very  good 
terms,  and  a  word  from  me  will  procure  you  a  cor 
dial  reception.  The  question  is,  how  shall  we  set 
about  it?  You  can't  present  yourself  at  court  as 
you  are ;  you  must  have  a  horse  and  a  fine  costume, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Perhaps  there's  a  good  fairy  in  the  neighbor 
hood,"  said  the  Boy  hopefully. 

The  Knight  shook  his  head.  "Not  within  a 
dozen  leagues.  But  stop  a  bit — it  is  just  possible 
that  Aunt  Jo  can  manage  the  matter.  Aunt  Jo 
is  the  sister  of  my  wife's  mother,  and  one  of  the 
cleverest  witches  in  the  country.  She  stands  very 
high  in  her  profession  and  is  thoroughly  schooled 
in  every  branch  of  deviltry;  and  with  the  excep 
tion  of  my  wife's  mother,  I  can  think  of  no  per 
son  whose  society  is  less  desirable.  But  one  day 
in  each  year  she  takes  a  day  off,  during  which  she 
is  as  affable  and  benevolent  an  old  dame  as  you 
can  possibly  imagine;  really,  you  would  never 
know  it  was  the  same  person.  These  annual 
breathing  spells  do  her  a  world  of  good,  she  tells 
me;  for  incessant  wickedness  is  just  as  monoton 
ous  and  wearisome  as  unbroken  goodness." 

"And  to-day  is  the  Witch's  holiday?" 

"Yes,  it  so  happens;  and  I  always  make  it  a 
[144] 


point  to  spend  the  night  at  her  cottage  if  I  am 
in  this  part  of  the  country." 

The  Knight  of  the  Dusty  Thoroughfare  rose 
and  put  his  cloak  about  his  shoulders,  and  with 
the  Boy  set  forward  through  the  valley. 

IV. 

Presently  they  came  to  the  Witch's  cottage, 
snuggled  away  in  a  hollow  and  hidden  from  the 
road  by  a  tangle  of  witch  hazel  shrubs.  The  Boy 
rather  expected  a  dark,  forbidding  hut  of  sinister 
outlines,  but  here  was  as  pretty  a  cabin  as  ever  you 
saw,  weathered  a  pleasing  gray,  with  green  blinds 
and  a  tiny  porch  overrun  with  Virginia-creeper. 

The  Knight  strode  boldly  up  the  path,  the  Boy 
following  less  confidently.  No  one  answering  the 
summons  at  the  porch,  they  tried  the  kitchen  door. 
It  was  open,  and  they  stepped  inside.  The  Witch 
was  not  at  home,  but  evidently  she  was  not  far 
away,  for  a  fire  was  crackling  in  the  stove  and  a 
kettle  singing  over  the  flames.  An  enormous 
black  cat  got  up  lazily  from  the  hearth  and  rubbed 
himself  against  the  visitors  with  a  purr  like  a 
small  dynamo. 

With  the  familiarity  of  a  relative  the  Knight 
led  the  way  about  the  house.  One  door  was 
locked.  "This,"  said  he,  "is  Aunt  Jo's  dark  room, 
in  which  she  develops  her  deviltry.  This" — 
opening  the  door  of  a  little  shed — "is  the  garage." 

[145] 


The  Boy  peeped  in  and  saw  two  autobroom- 
sticks. 

"The  small  green  one  is  her  runabout.  The  big 
red  one  is  a  touring  broomstick,  high  power  and 
very  fast;  you  can  hear  her  coming  a  mile  off." 

They  returned  to  the  sitting  room,  and  the  Boy 
became  greatly  taken  with  Aunt  Jo's  collection 
of  books.  Some  of  these  were :  "One  Hundred 
and  One  Best  Broths,"  "Witchcraft  Self-Taught," 
"The  Black  Art— Berlitz  Method,"  and  "Bur- 
bank's  Complete  Wizard."  The  Boy  took  down 
the  "Complete  Wizard,"  but  he  was  not  able  to 
do  more  than  glance  at  the  absorbing  contents  be 
fore  the  clicking  of  the  gate  announced  that  the 
Witch  had  returned. 

Aunt  Jo  was  a  sprightly  dame  of  more  than 
seventy  years,  very  thin,  but  straight  and  supple, 
and  with  hair  still  jet  black.  Her  eyes  were  gray- 
green  or  green-gray,  as  the  light  happened  to 
strike  them;  her  cheeks  were  hollow,  and  a  long 
sharp  chin  slanted  up  to  meet  a  long  sharp  nose. 
Ordinarily,  as  the  Knight  had  hinted,  she  was  no 
doubt  an  unholy  terror,  but  to-day  she  was  in  the 
best  of  humors,  and  her  eyes  twinkled  with  good 
nature. 

"I  just  stepped  out,"  she  explained,  "to  carry 
some  jelly  and  cake  to  one  of  my  neighbors,  a 
woodcutter's  wife.  The  poor  woman  has  been 
ill  all  the  summer!  Mercy!  if  I  haven't  had  a 


day  of  it!"  She  dropped  into  a  chair,  brushing 
a  fly  from  the  tip  of  her  nose  with  the  tip  of  her 
tongue.  "How  is  everything  in  Rainbow's-End?" 
she  asked.  "I  suppose  SHE  is  as  bad  as  ever." 

"Worse,"  replied  the  Knight,  fetching  a  sigh. 
"And  SHE  never  takes  a  day  off,  as  you  do." 

"Well,  Henry,  it's  your  own  fault,  as  I've  told 
you  a  thousand  times.  If  you  hadn't  been  so  soft 
hearted But  mercy!  that's  no  way  to  be 

talking  on  my  holiday." 

"So !"  said  the  Boy  to  himself.  "This  wander 
ing  knight  is  the  King  of  Rainbow's-End  and  the 
father  of  the  Princess.  I  have  a  friend  at  court 
indeed." 

v. 

"And  how  is  the  Princess  Aralia?"  asked  the 
Witch.  "As  pretty  as  ever,  I  suppose,  and  with 
no  prospect  of  a  husband,  thanks  to  her  grand 
mother  and  the  silly  tasks  she  sets  for  the  suitors." 

"That  brings  us  to  the  business  of  our  young 
friend  here,"  said  the  Knight  of  the  Dusty  Thor 
oughfare.  "He  wishes  to  present  himself  at 
court,  and  is  in  great  need  of  a  horse  and  ward 
robe." 

"You've  come  to  the  wrong  shop  for  horses 
and  fine  feathers,"  said  the  Witch.  "Those  things 
are  quite  out  of  my  line." 

The  Boy  looked  his  disappointment. 

[147] 


"The  best  I  can  do,"  said  Aunt  Jo  kindly,  "is 
to  give  you  a  letter  to  a  Mr.  Burbank,  an  excel 
lent  wizard  of  my  acquaintance.  He  has  recently 
invented  a  skinless  grape  and  a  watermelon  that  is 
all  heart,  and  is  quite  the  cleverest  man  in  the  busi 
ness.  Such  a  trifle  as  changing  a  pig  into  a  horse 
will  give  him  no  trouble  whatever.  Have  you 
seen  my  garden,  Henry?" 

"No,  but  I  should  like  to,"  said  the  Knight  ris 
ing. 

"Meanwhile,"  said  the  Witch,  "I  will  start  the 
supper  if  our  young  friend  will  fetch  the  wood." 

The  Boy  responded  with  such  cheerful  readi 
ness  that  Aunt  Jo  patted  him  on  the  cheek  and 
said:  "You're  the  lad  for  the  Princess  Aralia, 
and  have  her  you  shall  if  Aunt  Jo  can  bring  it 
about.  And  now  go  out  in  the  garden  and  pick 
me  a  hatful  of  Brussels  sprouts." 

It  was  impossible  to  imagine  a  more  appetizing 
supper  than  that  which  the  three  sat  down  to. 
Everything  was  prepared  to  a  nicety,  and  the 
Knight  could  not  say  enough  in  praise  of  the 
raised  biscuits  and  home  made  currant  jell.  As 
for  the  doughnuts,  "Such  doughnuts  can't  be  made 
without  witchcraft,  Jo,"  he  declared. 

"Nonsense !"  said  the  old  lady.     "I  don't  put 

a  thing  into  them  that  any  good  cook  doesn't  use. 

Making  doughnuts  always  was  an  art  by  itself. 

You  must  both  take  some  with  you  when  you  go." 

[148] 


After  supper  the  Knight  wiped  the  dishes  while 
the  Witch  washed  them,  Aunt  Jo  declaring  it  a 
shame  that  a  man  so  domestically  inclined  should 
be  compelled  to  wander  from  one  end  of  the  rain 
bow  to  the  other  just  because  of  a  foolish  tender 
heartedness  in  days  gone  by.  While  the  pair  dis 
cussed  this  fruitful  topic  the  Boy  dipped  into  the 
fascinating  chapters  of  the  "Complete  Wizard." 

"Time  for  bed,"  announced  the  Knight  an  hour 
later;  and  he  added  for  the  Boy's  ear:  "We  must 
make  an  early  start  in  the  morning." 

"I  for  one  shall  sleep  soundly,"  Aunt  Jo  de 
clared.  "I've  run  my  legs  off  to-day,  as  I  never 
use  a  broomstick  on  my  holiday." 

She  conducted  her  guests  to  a  tiny  bedchamber 
above  stairs.  "I  will  leave  a  bag  of  doughnuts  on 
the  table,  Henry,"  said  she,  "as  I  suppose  you  will 
be  off  before  I  am  up.  Good-night!" 

When  she  had  gone  below  the  Knight  said: 
"We  must  be  moving  with  the  first  streak  of  day. 
Aunt  Jo's  holiday  ends  with  sun-up,  and  you 
would  find  her  a  vastly  different  old  party,  I  can 
tell  you." 

VI. 

"I  don't  think  I  should  be  afraid  of  her,"  said 
the  Boy. 

The  Knight  chuckled,  and  without  further 
speech  got  into  bed  and  was  soon  wrapped  in  a 

[149] 


deep  slumber.  Next  to  a  clear  conscience  and  the 
open  road,  a  good  bed  at  night  is  something  to  set 
store  by. 

But  the  Boy  could  not  sleep  for  the  exciting  pic 
tures  that  danced  in  his  head,  and  he  was  impa 
tient  for  the  morning  light,  that  he  might  be  on 
his  way  to  Rainbow's-End.  The  moon  peeped 
in  the  window;  the  breeze  made  a  pleasant  sound 
in  the  poplar  trees;  from  somewhere  came  the 
music  of  a  little  brook.  To  all  these  gentle  influ 
ences  the  Boy  finally  yielded. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  plucking  at  his  sleeve. 

"Time  to  be  moving,"  said  the  Knight  in  a 
hoarse  whisper.  "We  can  put  on  our  shoes  after 
we  leave  the  house." 

They  crept  down  the  stair,  which  creaked  in 
terrifying  fashion,  but  a  gentle  snoring  from  the 
Witch's  bedroom  reassured  them.  After  they 
had  tiptoed  out  of  the  house  and  gained  the  road 
they  discovered  that  they  had  forgotten  the  bag 
of  doughnuts.  The  Knight  declared  that  he  would 
not  return  for  a  million  doughnuts,  but  the  Boy, 
remembering  how  delicious  they  tasted,  stole  back 
to  the  door  and  lifted  the  latch  softly.  Aunt  Jo 
was  still  snoring,  but,  just  as  he  laid  hold  of  the 
doughnuts,  Pluto  the  cat  came  leaping  in  from  the 
kitchen,  and  the  Boy  had  barely  time  to  put  the 
door  between  its  sharp  claws  and  himself.  He 
ran  down  the  path,  vaulted  the  gate,  and  looked 


about  for  the  Knight.  Away  down  the  road  was 
a  rapidly  diminishing  figure. 

The  Boy  was  a  good  runner,  and  he  was  fast 
overtaking  the  Knight,  when  the  latter,  who  had 
been  casting  anxious  glances  over  his  shoulder  as 
he  ran,  suddenly  plunged  into  the  bushes  at  one 
side  of  the  road.  The  Boy  thought  it  wise  to 
follow  his  example. 

And  not  a  moment  too  soon.  A  small  whirring 
sound  grew  louder  and  louder,  and  Aunt  Jo  went 
whizzing  by  on  her  high  power  autobroomstick, 
leaving  in  her  wake  a  horrible  reek  of  gasoline 
and  brimstone.  But  not  the  Aunt  Jo  of  the  even 
ing  before.  Her  green  eyes  flashed  behind  the 
goggles,  and  her  face  was  something  dreadful  to 
behold.  On  her  shoulder  perched  Pluto,  every 
hair  erect,  and  spitting  fire. 

The  Boy  gasped,  and  hoped  he  had  seen  the 
last  of  the  terrible  hag,  when  the  whirring  noise 
announced  that  she  was  coming  back.  She  stopped 
her  broomstick  directly  opposite  the  hiding-place 
and  began  cutting  small  circles  in  the  air,  the 
while  peering  sharply  about. 

As  the  Boy  plunged  into  the  thicket,  he  fell. 
As  he  lay  there,  something  cold  pressed  against 
his  hand. 

It  was  Mowgli's  nose.  The  dog's  eyes  ques 
tioned  his  master,  who  had  cried  out  in  his  sleep. 

uOh,  Mowgli !"  he  exclaimed,  taking  the  span- 


iel  by  his  shaggy  ears,  "did  you  dream  all  that 
wonderful  dream?  Or  did  you  stop  at  the  wood- 
chuck  hole?  What  a  shame,  Mowgli,  if  there 
shouldn't  really  be  a  Knight  of  the  Dusty  Thor 
oughfare,  and  a  Princess  Aralia  and  a  Witch  who 
makes  wonderful  doughnuts  1" 


A  LINE-O'-TYPE  OR  TWO 


"Nous  ne  trouvons  guere  de  gens  de  bon  sens 
que  ceux  qui  sont  de  notre  avis." 

— La  Rochefoucauld. 


"THE  FRIEND  OF  THE  PEOPLE." 

Old  Amicus  Pop 
Is  the  friend  of  the  Wop, 
The  friend  of  the  Chink  and  the  Harp, 
The  friend  of  all  nations 
And  folk  of  all  stations, 
The  friend  of  the  shark  and  the  carp. 
He  sits  in  his  chair 

With  his  feet  on  the  table, 
And  lists  to  the  prayer 

Of  Minerva  and  Mabel, 
Veritas,  Pro  Bono,  Taxpayer,  and  the  rest, 
Who  wail  on  his  shoulder  and  weep  on  his  breast. 


Old  Amicus  Pop 

Is  the  solace  and  prop 
Of  all  who  are  weary  of  life. 

He  straightens  the  tangles 

And  jangles  and  wrangles 
That  breed  in  this  city  of  strife. 

Whatever  your  "beef," 

You  may  pour  him  an  earful; 

[153] 


Unbottle  your  grief 

Be  it  ever  so  tearful. 

Oh,  weep  all  you  wish — he  is  there  with  the  mop. 
Bring  all  of  your  troubles  to  Amicus  Pop. 

WHEN  we  think  of  the  countless  thousands  who 
peruse  this  Cro'-nest  of  Criticism,  a  feeling  of 
responsibility  weighs  heavily  upon  us,  and  almost 
spoils  our  day.  Frezzample,  one  writes  from  St. 
Paul:  "We  have  twenty  confirmed  readers  of 
the  Line  in  this  'house.'  '  The  quotation  marks 
disturb  us.  Can  it  be  a  sanitarium? 

MOST  of  the  trouble  in  this  world  is  caused  by 
people  who  do  not  know  when  they  are  well  off. 
The  Germans  did  not  know  when  they  were  well 
off.  Your  cook,  who  left  last  week,  as  little  ap 
prehended  her  good  fortune.  Nor  will  the  Fili 
pinos  be  happy  till  they  get  it. 

THOSE  who  stand  in  awe  of  persons  with  logical 
minds  will  be  reassured  by  Henry  Adams'  perti 
nent  reflection  that  the  mind  resorts  to  reason  for 
want  of  training.  His  definition  of  philosophy 
is  also  reassuring:  "Unintelligible  answers  to 
insoluble  problems." 

AMONG  those  who  have  guessed  at  the  meaning 
of  "the  freedom  of  the  seas"  was  Cowper: 
"Without   one    friend,    above   all    foes, 
Britannia  gives  the  world  repose." 

[154] 


MAXWELL  BODENHEIM  has  published  a  book 
of  poems,  and  the  critics  allow  that  Max  Boden's 
brays  are  bonnie. 

IF  YOU  MUST  KISS,  KISS  THE  DOCTOR. 

[From  "How  to  Avoid  Influenza."] 

Avoid  kissing,  as  this  habit  readily  transmits 
influenza.  If  physician  is  available,  it  is  best 
to  consult  him. 

QUICK,  WATSON,  THE  PLUMBER! 

[From  the  Cedar  Rapids  Gazette.]  * 

Mrs.  T.  M.  Dripps  gave  a  dinner  Friday  in 
honor  of  Mrs.  D.  L.  Leek  of  South  Dakota. 

"KiND  Captain,  I've  important  information." 
Mr.  Honkavaarra  runs  an  automobile  livery  in 
Palmer,  Mich. 

"THE  first  child,  Lord  Blandford,  was  born  in 
1907;  the  second  was  born  in  1898." — Chicago 
American. 

This  so  annoyed  the  Duke,  that  a  reconcilia 
tion  was  never  possible. 

WHEN  your  friend  points  with  pride  to  a  pic 
ture  that,  in  your  judgment,  leaves  something  to 
be  desired,  or  when  he  exhibits  the  latest  addition 
to  his  family,  you  may  be  perplexed  to  voice  an 

[155] 


opinion  that  will  satisfy  both  him  and  your  con 
science.  An  artist  friend  of  ours  is  never  at  a  loss. 
If  it  is  a  picture,  he  exclaims,  "Extraordinary!" 
If  it  is  an  infant,  he  remarks,  "There  is  a  baby!" 
He  might  add,  with  the  English  wit,  uone  more 
easily  conceived  than  described." 

THE  advantages  of  a  classical  education  are  so 
obvious  that  the  present-day  battle  in  its  behalf 
seems  a  waste  of  energy.  Frezzample,  without  a 
classical  education  how  could  you  appreciate  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Odessey  is  now  running  a  Noah's 
Ark  candy  kitchen  in  St.  Peter,  Wis.  ? 

ONE  may  believe  that  the  ugift  of  healing"  is 
nothing  more  than  the  application  of  imaginary 
balm  to  non-existent  disease,  but  if  one  says  so 
he  gets  into  a  jolly  row  with  people  who  consider 
an  open  mind  synonymous  with  credulity.  Our 
own  state  of  mind  was  accurately  described  by 
Charles  A.  Dana:  "I  don't  believe  in  ghosts," 
said  he,  "but  I've  been  afraid  of  them  all  my  life." 

THE  congregation  will  rise  and  sing: 
Bill  Bryan's  heart  is  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
But  his  lungs  go  marching  on. 

THE  astronomer  Hamilton  "made  an  expedi 
tion  to  Dublin  to  substitute  a  semi-colon  for  a 
colon"  ;  but,  reports  J.  E.  R.,  "my  wife's  brother's 


brother-in-law's    doctor    charged   him   $600    for 
removing  only  part  of  a  colon." 

FEW  readers  realize  how  much  time  is  ex 
pended  in  making  certain  that  commas  are  prop 
erly  distributed.  Thomas  Campbell  walked  six 
miles  to  a  printer's  to  have  a  comma  in  one  of 
his  poems  changed  to  a  semi-colon. 

FOLLOWING  a  bout  with  the  gloves,  a  Seattle 
clubman  is  reported  "in  a  state  of  comma."  A 
doctor  writes  us  that  infection  by  the  colon  bacil 
lus  can  be  excluded,  but  we  should  say  that  what 
the  patient  needs  is  not  a  doctor  but  a  proof 
reader. 

"SHE  played  Liszt's  Rhapsodic  No.  2  with  re 
markable  speed,"  relates  the  Indianapolis  News. 
In  disposing  of  Liszt's  Rhapsodies  it  is  all  right 
to  step  on  the  accelerator,  as  the  sooner  they  are 
finished  the  better. 

GIVE  US  THIS  DAY  OUR  DAILY  CLIMATE, 

AND  FORGIVE  US  OUR  DROPS  IN 

TEMPERATURE! 

[From  the  Pasadena   Star-News.] 

To    put    it    in    another    form    of    expression, 

Mother  Nature  maintains  poise  and  evenness  of 

temper  in  this  state  far  better  than  in  most  regions 

on  this  terrestrial  ball.     If  you  haven't  thanked 

[157] 


God  to-day  that  you  are  privileged  to  live  in  Cali 
fornia  it  is  not  yet  too  late  to  do  so.  Make  it  a 
daily  habit.  The  blessing  is  worth  this  frequent 
expression  of  gratitude  to  the  All  High. 

VARIANT  OF  A  MORE  OR  LESS  WELL 
KNOWN  STORY. 

[From  the  Exeter,  Neb.,  News.] 

Whoever  took  the  whole  pumpkin  pie  from 
Mrs.  W.  H.  Taylor's  kitchen  the  night  of  the 
party  was  welcome  to  it  as  the  cat  had  stepped 
in  it  twice  and  it  could  not  be  used.  Many  thanks 
for  the  pan,  she  says. 

THE  WORLD'S  GREATEST  WINTER  RESORT. 

"Because    of    high    temperatures    and    chinooks 
Medicine  Hat  is  menaced  with  an  ice  famine." 

They  bask  in  the  sunshine  and  purr  like  a  cat, 
The  fortunate  people  of  Medicine  Hat. 

Its  climate  is  balmy  in  spite  of  the  lat. ; 
You  have  a  wrong  notion  of  Medicine  Hat. 

At  Christmas  they  sit  on  their  porches  and  chat, 
For  it  never  gets  chilly  in  Medicine  Hat. 

The  Medicine  Hatters  all  spoil  for  a  spat 
With  any  defamer  of  Medicine  Hat  ; 

They're  ready  and  anxious  to  go  to  the  mat 
With  any  one  scoffing  at  Medicine  Hat. 

[158] 


The  birds  never  migrate — they  know  where  they're  at, 
For  it  always  is  summer  in  Medicine  Hat. 

No  day  that  you  can't  use  a  heliostat ; 
Sunlight  is  eternal  in  Medicine  Hat. 

They're  swatting  the  fly  and  the  skeeter  and  gnat, 
As  frost  never  kills  them  in  Medicine  Hat. 

His  nature  is  skeptic,  he's  blind  as  a  bat 
Who  can't  see  the  beauties  of  Medicine  Hat. 

All  jesting  is  flatulent,  futile,  and  flat 
That  libels  the  climate  of  Medicine  Hat. 

Away  with  the  knockers  who  knock  it,  and  drat 
The  jokers  who  joke  about  Medicine  Hat. 

In  short,  it's  the  one,  the  ideal  habitat. 
Boy!  buy  me  a  ticket  to  Medicine  Hat! 

ACCORDING  to  the  Milford  Herald  a  young 
couple  were  married  "under  the  strain  of  Men 
delssohn's  wedding  march." 

THE  VILLAGE  OMAR  LOSES  HIS  OUTFIT. 

[From  the   Fort  Dodge   Messenger.] 

Lost — Grass  rug  and  ukulele  between  Shady 
Oaks  and  Fort  Dodge.  Finder  notify  Messenger. 

"THELANDER-ECKBLADE  Wedding  Solomon- 
ized,"  reports  the  Batavia  Herald.  Interesting 
and  unusual. 

[159] 


"TWEET!  TWEET!"  GOES  THE  ENRAP 
TURED  REPORTER. 

[From  the  Sterling  Gazette.] 

The  wedding  party  wended  its  way  to  the  grove 
south  of  the  river  and  there,  in  a  lovely  spot, 
where  pleasant  hours  of  courtship  have  been 
passed,  the  wedding  ceremony  was  performed. 
No  stately  church  edifice  built  by  man,  no  gilded 
altar,  no  polished  pews  nor  polished  floors  were 
there;  no  stately  organ  or  trained  choir;  there 
was  an  absence  of  ushers,  bridesmaids  and  par 
son  heavily  gowned.  No  curious  crowd  thronged 
without  the  portal.  In  place  of  this  display  and 
grandeur  they  were  surrounded  by  an  edifice  of 
nature's  planting — the  stately  forest  tree,  while 
the  green  sward  of  the  verdant  grove  furnished 
a  velvety  carpet.  There,  in  this  beautiful  spot, 
where  the  Creator  ordained  such  events  to  occur, 
the  young  couple,  true  lovers  of  the  simple  life, 
took  upon  themselves  the  vows  which  united  them 
until  "death  itself  should  part."  The  rustle  of 
the  leaves  in  the  treetop  murmured  nature's  sweet 
benediction,  while  the  bluebird,  the  robin,  and  the 
thrush  sang  a  glorious  doxology. 


WEDDED,  in  Clay  county,  Illinois,  Emma  Pickle 
and  Gay  Gerking.  A  wedding  gift  from  Mr. 
Heinz  or  Squire  Dingee  would  not  be  amiss. 

[i  60] 


A  SPLENDID  RECOVERY. 

[Waukesha,  Wis.,  item.] 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  Earl  Stallard  arc  the  proud 
parents  of  an  eight  pound  boy,  born  at  the  Mu 
nicipal  hospital  this  morning.  Mr.  Stallard  will 
be  able  to  resume  his  duties  as  county  agricultural 
agent  by  to-morrow. 

HOW  FAST  THE  LEAVES  ARE  FALLING! 

[From  the  Waterloo  Courier.] 

Frank  Fuller,  night  operator  at  the  Illinois  Cen 
tral  telegraph  office,  has  been  kept  more  than 
busy  to-day,  all  because  of  a  ten  pound  boy  who 
arrived  at  his  home  last  evening.  Mr.  Fuller  has 
decided  that  he  will  spend  all  of  his  evenings  at 
his  home  in  the  future. 

HOW  SOON  IT  GETS  DARK  THESE  DAYS! 

[From  the  Pillager,  Minn.,  Herald.] 

That  stork  is  a  busy  bird.  It  left  a  lo-lb  baby 
girl  at  Ned  Mickles  last  Thursday  night.  Ned  is 
a  neighbor  of  Cy  Deaver. 

UPON  JULIA'S  ARCTICS. 
Whenas  galoshed  my  Julia  goesy 
Unbuckled  all  from  top  to  toes, 
How  swift  the  poem  becometh  prose! 
And  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 
Those  arctics  flopping  each  way  free, 
Oh,  how  that  flopping  floppeth  me! 
[161] 


UWE  are  all  in  the  dark  together,"  says  Ana- 
tole  France;  uthe  only  difference  is,  the  savant 
keeps  knocking  at  the  wall,  while  the  ignoramus 
stays  quietly  in  the  middle  of  the  room."  We 
used  to  be  intensely  interested  in  the  knocking  of 
the  savants,  but  as  nothing  ever  came  of  it,  we 
have  become  satisfied  with  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

A  GOOD  MOTTO. 

I  was  conversing  with  Mr.  Carlton  the  Li 
brarian,  and  he  quoted  from  memory  a  line  from 
Catulle  Mendes  that  seemed  to  me  uncommonly 
felicitous:  uLa  vie  est  un  jour  de  Mi-Careme. 
Quelques-uns  se  masquent;  moi,  je  ris." 

IN  his  declining  years  M.  France  has  associated 
himself  with  the  bunch  called  "Clarte,"  a  con 
scious  group  organized  by  Barbusse,  the  object 
of  which  is  the  "union  of  all  partisans  of  the  true 
right  and  the  true  liberty."  How  wittily  the 
Abbe  Coignard  would  have  discussed  "Clarte," 
and  how  wisely  M.  Bergeret  would  have  consid 
ered  it !  Alas  I  it  is  sad  to  lose  one's  hair,  but  it  is 
a  tragedy  to  lose  one's  unbeliefs. 

CHICAGO,  as  has  been  intimated,  rather 
broadly,  is  a  jay  town;  but  it  is  coming  on.  A 
department  store  advertises  "cigarette  cases  and 


holders  for  the  gay  sub-deb  and  her  great-grand 
mother,"  also  "a  diary  for  'her'  if  she  leads  an 
exciting  life." 

WE  infer  from  the  reviews  of  John  Burroughs' 
"Accepting  the  Universe"  that  John  has  decided 
to  accept  it.  One  might  as  well.  With  the  reser 
vation  that  acceptance  does  not  imply  approval. 

IT  is  possible  that  Schopenhauer  wrote  his  w.  k. 
essay  on  woman  after  a  visit  to  a  bathing  beach. 

WE  heard  a  good  definition  of  a  bore.  A  bore 
is  a  man  who,  when  you  ask  him  how  he  is,  tells 
you. 

THE  sleeping  sickness  (not  the  African  variety) 
is  more  mysterious  than  the  flu.  It  will  be  remem 
bered  that  two  things  were  discovered  about  the 
flu :  first,  that  it  was  caused  by  a  certain  bacillus, 
and,  second,  that  it  was  not  caused  by  that  bacillus. 
But  all  that  is  known  about  the  sleeping  sickness 
is  that  it  attacks,  by  preference,  carpenters  and 
plumbers. 

SLANGY  and  prophetic  Merimee,  who  wrote,  in 
"Love  Letters  of  a  Genius" :  "You  may  take  it 
from  me  that  .  .  .  short  dresses  will  be  the  order 
of  the  day,  and  those  who  are  blessed  with  natu 
ral  advantages  will  be  at  last  distinguished  from 
those  whose  advantages  are  artificial  only." 


HAPPY  above  all  other  writing  mortals  we  es 
teem  him  who,  like  Barrie,  treads  with  sure  feet 
the  borderland  'twixt  fact  and  faery,  stepping  now 
on  this  side,  now  on  that.  One  must  write  with 
moist  eyes  many  pages  of  such  a  fantasy  as  UA 
Kiss  for  Cinderella."  There  are  tears  that  are 
not  laughter's,  nor  grief's,  but  beauty's  own.  A 
lovely  landscape  may  bring  them,  or  a  strain  of 
music,  or  a  written  or  a  spoken  line. 

ALL  we  can  get  out  of  a  Shaw  play  is  two  hours 
and  a  half  of  mental  exhilaration.  We  are,  in 
scrutably,  denied  the  pleasure  of  wondering  what 
Shaw  means,  or  whether  he  is  sincere. 


WHY  THE  MAKE-UP  FLED. 
[From  the  Dodge  Center  Record.] 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Umberhocker  returned  yester 
day  from  an  over  Sunday  visit  with  their  son  and 
family  in  Minneapolis. 

They  are  in  hopes  to  soon  land  them  in  jail  as 
they  did  the  hog  thieves,  who  were  to  have  a  hear 
ing  but  waved  it  and  trial  will  be  held  later. 

ulx  isn't  hard  to  sit  up  with  a  sick  friend  when 
he  has  a  charming  sister,"  reports  B.  B.  But  if 
it  were  a  sick  horse,  Venus  herself  would  be  in  the 
way. 


"SAVING  the  penny  is  all  right,"  writes  a  vox- 
popper  to  the  Menominee  News,  "but  saving  the 
dollar  is  100  per  cent  better."  At  least. 

MUSIC  HATH  CHARMS. 
What  opus  of  Brahms'  is  your  pet? — * 
A  concerto,  a  trio,  duet, 
Sonate  No.  3 
(For  Viol  and  P.), 
Or  the  second  piano  quartette? 

SARDI. 

Our  favorite  Brahms?   We're  not  surt 
For  all  are  so  classique  et  pur; 
But  we'll  mention  an  opus 
With  which  you  may  dope  us — 
One  Hundred  and  Sixteen,  E  dur. 

BRAHMS,  OPUS  116. 
I  care  for  your  pet,  One  Sixteen 
(Your  choice  proves  your  judgment  is  keen) ; 
But  in  E,  you  forget,  see, 
It  has  two  intermezzi; 
Please,  which  of  these  twain  do  you  mean  ? 

SARDI. 

Which  E?    Can  you  ask?    Must  we  tell? 
Doth  it  not  every  other  excel — 

The  ineffable  one, 

Of  gossamer  spun, 
The  ultimate  spirituelle. 

[165] 


A  CANDID  butcher  in  Battle  Creek  advertises 
"Terrible  cuts." 

ANOTHER  candid  merchant  in  Ottumwa,  la.,  ad 
vises:  "Buy  to-day  and  think  to-morrow." 

MUSIC  HINT. 

'* 

Sir:  P.  A.  Scholes,  in  his  "Listener's  Guide  to 
Music,"  revives  two  good  laughs — thus:  "A 
fugue  is  a  piece  in  which  the  voices  one  by  one 
come  in  and  the  people  one  by  one  go  out."  Also 
he  quotes  from  Sam'l  Butler's  Note  Books:  "I 
pleased  Jones  by  saying  that  the  hautbois  was 
a  clarinet  with  a  cold  in  its  head,  and  the  bas 
soon  the  same  with  a  cold  in  its  chest."  The  cor 
anglais  suffers  slightly  from  both  symptoms.  Some 
ambitious  composer,  by  judicious  use  of  the  more 
diseased  instruments,  could  achieve  the  most 
rheumy  musical  effects,  particularly  if,  a  la  Scria- 
bin,  he  should  have  the  atmosphere  of  the  concert 
hall  heavily  charged  with  eucalyptus. 

E.  PONTIFEX. 

"I  WILL  now  sing  for  you,"  announced  a  con 
tralto  to  a  woman's  club  meeting  in  the  Copley- 
Plaza,  "a  composition  by  one  of  Boston's  noted 
composers,  Mr.  Chadwick.  'He  loves  me.'  " 
And  of  course  everybody  thought  George  wrote 
it  for  her. 

[166] 


"GRAND  opera  is,  above  all  others,  the  high 
brow  form  of  entertainment." — Chicago  Journal. 

Yes.  In  comparison,  a  concert  of  chamber  mu 
sic  appears  trifling  and  almost  vulgar. 

AT  a  reception  in  San  Francisco,  Mrs.  Wanda- 
zetta  Fuller-Biers  sang  and  Mrs.  Mabel  Boone- 
Sooey  read.  Cannot  they  be  signed  for  an  enter 
tainment  in  the  Academy? 

WE  simply  cannot  understand  why  Dorothy 
Pound,  pianist,  and  Isabelle  Bellows,  singer,  of 
the  American  Conservatory,  do  not  hitch  up  for 
a  concert  tour. 

RICHARD  STRAUSS  has  been  defined  as  a  mu 
sician  who  was  once  a  genius.  Now  comes  an 
other  felicitous  definition — "Unitarian:  a  Retired 
Christian." 

DR.  HYSLOP,  the  psychical  research  man,  says 
that  the  spirit  world  is  full  of  cranks.  These,  we 
take  it,  are  not  on  the  spirit  level. 

THE  present  physical  training  instructor  in  the 
Waterloo,  la.,  Y.  W.  C.  A.  is  Miss  Armstrong, 
Paradoxically,  the  position  was  formerly  held  by 
Miss  Goodenough.  These  things  appear  to  in 
terest  many  readers. 


THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  PACIFIST  SNARK. 
(With  Mr.  Ford  as  the  Bellman.) 

"Just  the  place  for  a  Snark!"  the  Bellman  cried, 

"Just  the  place  for  a  Snark,  I  declare!" 
And  he  anchored  the  Flivver  a  mile  up  the  river, 

And  landed  his  crew  with  care. 

He  had  bought  a  large  map  representing  the  moon, 

Which  he  spread  with  a  runcible  hand; 
And  the  crew,  you  could  see,  were  as  pleased  as  could  be 

With  a  map  they  could  all  understand. 

"Now,  listen,  my  friends,  while  I  tell  you  again 

The  five  unmistakable  marks 
By  which  you  may  know,  wherever  you  go, 

The  warranted  pacifist  Snarks. 

The  first  is  the  taste,  which  is  something  like  guff, 
Tho'  with  gammon  'twill  also  compare; 

The  next  is  the  sound,  which  is  simple  enough — 
It  resembles  escaping  hot  air. 

The  third  is  the  shape,  which  is  somewhat  absurd, 

And  this  you  will  understand 
When  I  tell  you  it  looks  like  the  African  bird 

That  buries  its  head  in  the  sand. 

The  fourth  is  a  want  of  the  humorous  sense, 

Of  which  it  has  hardly  a  hint. 
And  last,  but  not  least,  this  marvelous  beast 

Is  a  glutton  for  getting  in  print. 

[168] 


Now,  Pacifist  Snarks  do  no  manner  of  harm, 

Yet  I  deem  it  my  duty  to  say, 
Some  are  Boojums "  The  Bellman  broke  off  in  alarm, 

For  Jane  Addams  had  fainted  away. 

CONCERNING  his  reference  to  "Demosthenes' 
lantern,"  the  distinguished  culprit,  Rupert 
Hughes,  writes  us  that  of  course  he  meant  Isos 
celes'  lantern.  The  slip  was  pardonable,  he 
urges,  as  he  read  proof  on  the  line  only  seven 
times — in  manuscript,  in  typescript,  in  proof  for 
the  magazine,  in  the  copy  for  the  book,  in  galley, 
in  page-proof,  and  finally  in  the  printed  book. 
And  heaven  only  knows  how  many  proofreaders 
let  it  through.  "Be  that  as  it  may,"  says  Rupert, 
"I  am  like  our  famous  humorist,  Archibald 
Ward,  who  refused  to  be  responsible  for  debts  of 
his  own  contracting.  And,  anyway,  I  thank  you 
for  calling  my  attention  to  the  blunder  quietly  and 
confidentially,  instead  of  bawling  me  out  in  a  pub 
lic  place  where  a  lot  of  people  might  learn  of  it." 

SORRY  WE  MISSED  YOU. 

Sir:  .  .  .  There  were  several  things  I  wanted 
to  say  to  you,  and  I  proposed  also  to  crack  you 
over  the  sconce  for  what  you  have  been  saying 
about  us  Sinn  Feiners.  I  suppose  you're  the  sort 
that  would  laugh  at  this  'story : 

He  was  Irish  and  badly  wounded,  unconscious 


when  they  got  him  back  to  the  dressing  station,  in 
a  ruined  village.  "Bad  case,"  said  the  docs. 
"When  he  comes  out  of  his  swoon  he'll  need 
cheering  up.  Say  something  heartening  to  him, 
boys.  Tell  him  he's  in  Ireland."  When  the  lad 
came  to  he  looked  around  (ruined  church  on  one 
side,  busted  houses,  etc.,*up  stage,  and  all  that)  : 
"Where  am  I  ?"  sez  he.  "  'S  all  right,  Pat ;  you're 
in  Ireland,  boy."  "Glory  be  to  God!"  sez  he, 
looking  around  again.  "How  long  have  yez  had 
Home  Rule?"  TOM  DALY. 

OUR  BOYS. 

[From   the   Sheridan,    Wyo.,   Enterprise.] 

Our  boys  are  off  for  the  borders 

Awaiting  further  orders 

From  our  president  to  go 

Down  into  old  Mexico, 

Where  the  Greaser,  behind  a  cactus, 

Is  waiting  to  attack  us. 

THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober,  and  the 
leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere,  as  I  sat  in  the 
porch  chair  and  regarded  our  neighbor'.s  patch  of 
woodland;  and  I  thought:  The  skies  may  be 
ashen  and  sober,  and  the  leaves  may  be  crisped 
and  sere,  but  in  a  maple  wood  we  may  dispense 
with  the  sun,  such  irradiation  is  there  from  the 
gold  of  the  crisped  'leaves.  Jack  Frost  is  as, 
clever  a  wizard  as  the  dwarf  Rumpelstiltzkin,  who 
[170] 


taught  the  miller's  daughter  the  trick  of  spinning 
straw  into  gold.  This  young  ash,  robed  all  in 
yellow — what  can  the  sun  add  to  its  splendor? 
And  those  farther  tree-tops,  that  show  against  the 
sky  like  a  tapestry,  the  slenderer  branches  and 
twigs,  unstirred  by  wind,  having  the  similitude  of 
threads  in  a  pattern — can  the  sun  gild  their  re 
fined  gold?  How  delicate  is  the  tinting  of  that 
cherry,  the  green  of  which  is  fading  into  yellow, 
each  leaf  between  the  two  colors:  this  should  be 
described  in  paint. 

No,  I  said;  in  a  hardwood  thicket,  in  October, 
though  it  were  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir,  one 
would  not  know  the  sun  was  lost  in  clouds.  At 
that  moment  the  sun  adventured  forth,  in  blazing 
denial.  It  was  as  if  the  woodland  had  burst  into 
flame. 

As  a  variation  of  the  story  about  the  merchant 
who  couldn't  keep  a  certain  article  because  so 
many  people  asked  for  it,  we  submit  the  follow 
ing:  A  lady  entered  the  rural  drugstore  which 
we  patronize  and  said,  uMr.  Blank,  I  want  a  bath 
spray."  "I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Jones,"  sezze,  "but 
the  bath  spray  is  sold." 

IN  A  DEPARTMENT  STORE. 

Customer — "/  want  to  look  at  some  tunics" 
Irish  Floorwalker — "We  don't  carry  musical 
instruments" 


THAT  Tennessee  congressman  who  was  arrested 
charged  with  operating  an  automobile  while  pif- 
flicated,  would  reply  that  when  he  voted  for  pro 
hibition  he  was  representing  his  constituents,  not 
his  private  thirst.  Have  we  not,  many  times,  in 
the  good  old  days  in  Vermont,  seen  representa 
tives  rise  with  difficulty  from  their  seats  to  cast 
their  vote  for  prohibition?  One  can  be  pretty 
drunk  and  still  be  able  to  articulate  "Ay." 

A  NEW  drug,  Dihydroxyphenylethylmethyla- 
mine,  sounds  as  if  all  it  needed  was  a  raisin. 

THE  Gluck  aria,  which  Mme.  Homer  has  made 
famous,  was  effectively  cited  by  the  critic  Hans- 
lick  to  show  that  in  vocal  music  the  subject  is  de 
termined  only  by  the  words.  He  wrote : 

"At  a   time   when   thousands    (among  whom 
there  were  men  like  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau)  were 
moved  to  tears  by  the  air  from  'Orpheus' — 
'J'ai  perdu  mon  Eurydice, 
Rien  n'egale  mon  malheur,' 

Boye,  a  contemporary  of  Gluck,  observed  that 
precisely  the  same  melody  would  accord  equally 
well,  if  not  better,  with  words  conveying  exactly 
the  reverse,  thus — 

'J'ai  trouve  mon  Eurydice, 
Rien  n'egale  mon  bonheur.' 

"We,  for  our  part,  are  not  of  the  opinion  that 
[172] 


in  this  case  the  composer  is  quite  free  from  blame, 
inasmuch  as  music  most  assuredly  possesses  ac 
cents  which  more  truly  express  a  feeling  of  pro 
found  sorrow.  If  however,  from  among  innu 
merable  instances,  we  selected  the  one  quoted,  we 
have  done  so  because,  in  the  first  place,  it  affects 
the  composer  who  is  credited  with  the  greatest 
dramatic  accuracy;  and,  secondly,  because  several 
generations  hailed  this  very  melody  as  most  cor 
rectly  rendering  the  supreme  grief  which  the  words 
express." 

ARTHUR  SHATTUCK  sued  for  appreciation  in 
Fond  du  Lac  the  other  evening,  playing,  accord 
ing  to  the  Reporter,  "a  plaintiff  melody  with  great 
tenderness."  The  jury  returned  a  verdict  in  his 
favor  without  leaving  their  seats. 

REPORTS  of  famine  in  China  have  recalled  a 
remark  about  its  excessive  population.  If  the  Chi 
nese  people  were  to  file  one  by  one  past  a  given 
point  the  procession  would  never  come  to  an  end. 
Before  the  last  man  of  those  living  to-day  had 
gone  by  another  generation  would  have  grown  up. 

"SAY  it  with  handkerchiefs,"  advertises  a  mer 
chant  in  Goshen,  Ind.  That  is,  if  the  idea  you 
wish  to  convey  is  that  you  have  a  cold  in  your 
head. 

[173] 


THE  SOIL  OF  KANSAS. 

[From  the  Kansas  Farmer.] 

Formed  by  the  polyps  of  a  shallow,  summer 
sea ;  fixed  by  the  subtile  chemistry  of  the  air,  and 
comminuted  by  the  ^Eolian  geology  of  the  Great 
Plains,  the  soil  of  Kansas  has  been  one  of  man's 
richest  possessions. 

Why  prose?  The  soil  of  Kansas,  the  Creator's 
masterpiece,  invites  to  song.  Frinstance — 

Formed  by  the*  polyps  of  a  summer  sea, 
Fixed  by  the  subtile  chemistry  of  air, 

Ground  by  ^Eolian  geology, 

The  soil  of  Kansas  is  beyond  compare! 

THE  GOOD  OLD  DAYS. 

Sir :  An  old  stage  hand  at  the  Eau  Claire  opry 
house  was  talking.  "No,  sir,  you  don't  see  the 
actors  to-day  like  we  used  to.  Why,  when  Booth 
and  Barrett  played  here  you  could  hear  them 
breathe  way  up  in  the  fly  gallery."  E.  C.  M. 

"WHAT  THE  LA  HELLE!" 

[From  the  Kankakee  Republican.] 

He  helped  tramp  the  old  Hindenburg  line,  but 
this  time,  beating  it  on  the  strains  of  "Aliens  en 
fant  de  la  Patrie  le  Jour  de  Gloire  est  de  Tri- 
omphe  et  Arrivee!" 

[174] 


HERE  is  a  characteristic  bit  of  Vermontese  that 
we  picked  up.  A  native  was  besought  to  saw 
some  wood,  but  he  declined.  The  owner  of  the 
wood  offered  double  price  for  the  sawing,  and 
still  the  native  declined.  He  was  pressed  for  a 
reason,  and  this  was  it:  "Damned  if  I'll  humor  a 


man." 


"Ix  is  not  moral.  It  is  immoral,"  declared  an 
editorial  colleague;  and  a  reader  is  reminded  of 
Lex  Iconics,  the  old  Greek  baker  of  Crammer's 
Gap,  Ark.,  who  used  to  display  in  his  window  the 
enticing  sign:  "Doughnuts.  Different  and  yet 
not  the  same." 

THE  mind  of  man  is  subject  to  many  strange  de 
lusions,  and  one  of  these  is  that  the  stock  market 
has  a  bottom. 

THE  manufacturer  of  a  certain  automobile  ad 
vertises  that  his  vehicle  "will  hold  five  ordinary 
people."  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  usually 
does. 

THE  Westminster  Gazette  headlines  "The  In 
tolerable  Dullness  of  Country  Life  in  Ireland." 
And  Irene  wonders  what  they  would  call  excite 
ment. 

[175] 


AN  advertisement  of  dolls  mentions,  super 
fluously,  that  "some  may  not  last  the  day."  One 
does  not  expect  them  to. 

THE  London  Mendicity  Society  estimates  that 
£100,000  is  given  away  haphazard  every  year  to 
street  beggars,  and  that  the  average  beggar  prob 
ably  earns  more  than  the  average  working  man. 
There  is  talk  of  the  beggars  forming  a  union.  A 
beggars'  strike  would  be  a  fearsome  thing. 

I  WANT  to  be  a  diplomat 
And   with   the  envoys  stand, 

A-wetting  of  my  whistle  in 
A  desiccated  land. 


[176] 


The  London  Busman  Story. 

/. — As  George  Meredith  might  have  related  it. 

STOP!"  she  signalled. 
The  appeal  was  comprehensible,  and  the 
charioteer,   assiduously  obliging,   fell  to  posture 
of  checking  none  too  volant  steeds. 

You  are  to  suppose  her  past  meridian,  nearer 
the  twilight  of  years,  noteworthy  rather  for  mat 
ter  than  manner;  and  her  visage,  comparable  to 
the  beef  of  England's  glory,  well  you  wot.  This 
one's  descent  was  mincing,  hesitant,  adumbrating 
dread  of  disclosures — these  expectedly  ample, 
columnar,  massive.  The  day  was  gusty,  the 
breeze  prankant;  petticoats,  bandbox,  umbrella 
were  to  be  conciliated,  managed  if  possible;  no 
light  task,  you  are  to  believe. 

"'Urry,  marm!" 

The  busman's  tone  was  patiently  admonitory, 
dispassionate.  A  veteran  in  his  calling,  who  had 
observed  the  ascending  and  descending  of  a 
myriad  matrons,  in  playful  gales. 

"'Urry,  marm!" 

The  fellow  was  without  illusions;  he  had  re 
viewed  more  twinkling  columns  than  a  sergeant 
of  drill.  Indifference  his  note,  leaning  to  ennui. 
He  said  so,  bluntly,  piquantly,  in  half  a  dozen 
memorable  words,  fetching  yawn  for  period. 

The  lady  jerked  an  indignant  exclamation,  and 
[177] 


completed,  rosily  precipitate,  her  passage  to  the 
pave. 

//. — As  Henry  James  might  have  written  it. 

We,  let  me  ask,  what  are  we,  the  choicer  of 
spirits  as  well  as  the  more  frugal  if  not  the  un 
deservedly  impoverished,  what,  I  ask,  are  we  to 
do  now  that  the  hansom  has  disappeared,  as  they 
say,  from  the  London  streets  and  the  taxicab  so 
wonderfully  yet  extravagantly  taken  its  place? 
Is  there,  indeed,  else  left  for  us  than  the  homely 
but  hallowed  'bus,  as  we  abbreviatedly  yet  all  so 
affectionately  term  it — the  'bus  of  one's  earlier 
days,  when  London  was  new  to  the  unjaded  sen- 
sorium  and  "Europe"  was  so  wonderfully,  so 
beautifully  dawning  on  one's  so  avid  and  sensitive 
consciousness? 

And  fate,  which  has  left  us  the  'bus — but  oh,  in 
what  scant  and  shabby  measure ! — has  left  us, 
too,  the  weather  that  so  densely  yet  so  congruously 
"goes  with  it" — the  weather  adequately  enough 
denoted  by  the  thick  atmosphere,  the  slimy  pave 
ments,  the  omnipresent  unfurled  umbrella  and 
the  stout,  elderly  woman  intent  upon  gaining,  at 
cost  of  whatever  risk  or  struggle,  her  place  and 
portion  among  the  moist  miscellany  to  whom  the 

dear  old  'bus But  perhaps  I  have  lost  the 

thread  of  my  sentence. 

Ah,  yes — that  "stout,  elderly  woman";  so 
[178] 


superabundant  whether  as  a  type  or  as  an  in 
dividual;  so  prone — or  "liable" — to  impinge 
tyrannously  upon  the  consciousness  of  her  fellow- 
traveller,  and  in  no  less  a  degree  upon  that  of  the 
public  servant,  who,  from  his  place  aloft,  guides, 
as  it  is  phrased,  the  destinies  of  the  conveyance. 
It  was,  indeed,  one  of  the  most  notable  of  these — 
a  humble  friend  of  my  own — who  had  the  fortune 
to  make  the  acute,  recorded,  historic  observation 
which,  with  the  hearty,  pungent,  cursory  brevity 
and  point  of  his  class  and  metier — the  envy  of  the 
painstaking,  voluminous  analyst  and  artist  of  our 
period But  again  I  stray. 

She  was  climbing  up,  or  climbing  down,  per 
plexed  equally,  as  I  gather,  by  the  management 
of  her  parapluie  and  of  her — enfin,  her  petti 
coats.  The  candid  anxiety  of  her  round,  under 
done  face,  as  she  so  wonderfully  writhed  to  main 
tain  the  standard  of  pudicity  dear — even  vital — 
to  the  matron  of  the  British  Isles  appealed — viv 
idly,  though  mutely — to  the  forbearance  that,  see 
ing,  would  still  seem  not  to  see,  her  foot,  her 
ankle,  her  mollet — as  I  early  learned  to  say  in 
Paris,  where,  however,  so  exigent  a  modesty  is 
scarcely.  .  .  .  well,  scarcely. 

"Madam,"  the  gracious  fellow  said  in  effect, 

"ne  vous  genez  pas."     Then  he  went  on  to  assure 

her  briefly  that  he  was  an  elderly  man;  that  he  had 

"held  the  ribbons,"  as  they  phrase  it,  for  several 

[179] 


years;  that  many  were  the  rainy  days  in  London; 
that  each  of  these  placed  numerous  women — 
elderly  or  younger — in  the  same  involuntary  pre 
dicament  as  that  from  which  she  herself  had  suf 
fered;  and  that  so  far  as  he  personally  was  con 
cerned  he  had  long  since  ceased  to  take  any  ex 
treme  delight  in  the Bref,  he  was  charm 
ing;  he  renewed  my  fading  belief — fading,  as  I 
had  thought,  disastrously  but  immitigably — in  the 
capacity  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  for  esprit;  and  I  am 
glad  indeed  to  have  taken  a  line  or  so  to  record 
his  mot. 

III. — As  finally  elucidated  by  Arnold  Bennett. 

Maria  Wickwyre,  of  the  Five  Towns,  emerged 
from  muddy  Bombazine  Lane  and  stood  in 
the  rain  and  wind  at  Pie  Corner,  eighty-four 
yards  from  the  door  of  St.  Jude's  chapel,  in  the 
Strand.  She  was  in  London!  Yes,  she  was  on 
that  spot,  she  and  none  other.  It  might  have 
been  somewhere  else;  it  might  have  been  some 
body  else.  But  it  wasn't.  Wonderful!  The 
miracle  of  Life  overcame  her. 

She  had  arms.  Two  of  them.  They  were  big 
and  round,  like  herself.  One  held  a  large  parcel 
("package"  for  the  American  edition)  ;  the  other, 
an  umbrella.  She  also  had  two  legs.  She  stood 
on  them.  If  they  had  been  absent,  or  if  they  had 
weakened,  she  would  have  collapsed.  But  they 
[180] 


held  her  up.  Ah,  the  mysteries  of  existence ! 
More  than  ever  was  she  conscious  of  her  firm, 
strong  underpinning.  Maria  waved  her  um 
brella  and  her  parcel  and  stopped  a  'bus.  The 
driver  was  elderly,  wrinkled,  weatherbeaten. 
Maria  got  in  and  rode  six  furlongs  and  some 
yards  to  Mooge  Road,  and  then  she  stopped  the 
'bus  to  get  out. 

If  she  was  conscious  of  her  upper  members  and 
their  charges,  she  was  still  more  conscious  of  her 
lower  ones.  If  she  had  her  parcel  and  her  um 
brella  to  think  about,  she  also  had  her  stockings 
and  petticoats  to  consider.  The  wind  blew,  the 
rain  drizzled,  the  driver  looked  around,  wonder 
ing  why  Maria  didn't  get  out  and  have  done  with 
it. 

"If  he  should  see  them!"  she  gasped.  (You 
know  what  she  meant  by  "them.")  Her  round, 
broad  face  mutely  implored  the  'busman  to  look 
the  other  way. 

He  wearily  closed  his  eyes.  He  had  been 
rumbling  through  the  Strand  for  thirty  years. 
"Lor',  mum,"  he  said,  "legs  ain't  no  treat  to  me !" 

Maria  collapsed,  after  all,  and  took  the  4:29 
for  home  that  same  afternoon. 


[181] 


A  LINE-O'-TYPE  OR  TWO 


Hew  to  the  Line,  let  the 
quips  fall  where  they  may. 


APRILLY. 

WHAN  that  Aprille  with  hise  shoures  soote 
The  droghte  of  March  had  perced  to  the  roote, 
I  druv  a  motor  thro'  Aprille's  bliz 
Somme  forty  mile,  and  dam  neere  lyke  to  friz. 

HARRIET  reports  the  first  trustworthy  sign  of 
spring:  friend  husband  on  the  back  porch  Sunday 
morning  removing  last  year's  mud  from  his  golf 
shoes. 

OLD  Doc  Oldfield  of  London  prescribes  dande 
lion  leaves,  eggs,  lettuce,  milk,  and  a  few  other 
things  for  people  who  would  live  long,  and  a 
Massachusetts  centenarian  offers,  as  her  formula, 
"Don't  worry  and  don't  over-eat."  But  we, 
whose  mission  is  to  enlighten  the  world,  rather 
than  to  ornament  it,  are  more  influenced  by  the 
experiment  of  Herbert  Spencer.  Persuaded  to 
a  vegetarian  diet,  he  stuck  at  it  for  six  months. 
Then  reading  over  what  he  had  written  during 
that  time,  he  thrust  the  manuscript  into  the  fire 
and  ordered  a  large  steak  with  fried  potatoes  and 
mushrooms. 


"SPRING  HAS  COME  .  .  ." 

The  trees  were  rocked  by  April's  blast; 

A  frozen  robin  fell, 
And  twittered,  as  he  breathed  his  last, 

"Lykelle,  lykelle,  lykelle." 

BYRON  WROTE  MOST  OF  THIS. 

[From  the  Monticello  Times.] 

Julf  Husman,  who  has  been  busy  for  the  past 
several  months,  building  a  fine  new  house  and 
barn,  celebrated  their  completion  with  a  barn 
dance  Wednesday  night.  "The  beauty  and 
chivalry"  of  Wayne  and  adjoining  townships  at 
tended,  and  did  "chase  the  glowing  hours  with 
flying  feet,"  with  as  much  enthusiasm  and 
pleasure  as  did  the  guests  "When  Belgium's 
capital  had  gathered  then  and  bright  the  lamps 
shone  over  fair  women  and  brave  men." 

A  CANNERY  DANCE. 
[From  the  Iowa  City  Press.] 

"Fair  women  and  brave  men"  circled  hither 
and  thither  in  the  maze  of  the  stately  waltz  and 
the  festal  two-step,  and  the  dainty  slippers  kept 
graceful  time  with  the  strains  of  the  exceptionally 
fine  music  of  the  hour.  Lovely  young  women, 
with  roses  in  their  cheeks  and  their  hair,  caught 
the  reflection  of  the  radiant  electric  lights  and  the 
[184] 


glory  of  the  superb  decorations,  and  their  natural 
pulchritude  was  enhanced  in  impressiveness 
thereby.  The  ufrou  frou"  of  silks  and  satins;  the 
enchanting  orchestral  offerings;  the  brilliant  illu 
minations;  the  alluring  decorations,  and  the  in 
toxication  of  the  dance  made  the  event  one  of  the 
most  markedly  successful  in  the  history  of  the 
university. 

FOR  THE  LAST  DAY  OF  MARCH. 

Just  before  you  go  to  bed, 
Push  the  clock  an  hour  ahead. 

LITTLE  MARY. 

DON'T  forget  to  set  the  time  locks  on  your  sa^fes 
ahead  an  hour.  Otherwise  you'll  be  all  mixed  up. 

AT  Ye  Olde  Colonial  Inn,  according  to  the 
Aurora  Beacon-News,  a  special  "Table  de 
Haute"  dinner  was  served  last  Sunday.  And 
the  Gem  restaurant  in  St.  Louis  tells  the  world: 
"Our  famous  steaks  tripled  our  seating  capacity." 

CHANCES,  2;  ERRORS,  2. 

Sir:  While  in  the  Hotel  Dyckman  I  noted  a 
sign  recommending  the  85c  dinner  in  the  "Eliza- 
bethian  Room."  After  a  search  I  found  the 
place,  duly  labeled  "Elizabethean  Room." 

D.  K.  M. 
[185] 


JUST  what  does  the  trade  jargon  mean,  "Ex 
perience  essential  but  not  necessary"?  We  see  it 
frequently  in  the  advertising  columns. 

A  VARIANT  of  the  form,  "experience  essential 
but  not  necessary,"  is  used  by  the  Racine  Times- 
Call,  as  follows: 

"Wanted,  secretary-treasurer  for  a  local  music 
corporation;  must  also  have  a  knowledge  of 
music,  but  not  essential." 

As  curious  as  the  advertising  form,  "experience 
essential  but  not  necessary,"  is  the  form  used  by 
the  Daily  News:  "Responsible  for  no  debts  con 
tracted  by  no  other  than  myself." 

THE  provincialism  indicated  by  the  title  of  the 
pop  song,  "Good  bye,  Broadway!  Hello, 
France !"  reminds  us  of  the  headline  in  a  New 
York  paper  some  years  ago:  "Halley's  Comet 
Rushing  on  New  York." 

"THE  love,  the  worship  of  truth  is  the  most  es 
sential  thing  in  journalism,"  says  the  editor  of  Le 
Matin.  Or,  as  the  ads  read,  "love  of  truth  es 
sential  but  not  necessary." 

THE  Hopkinsville,  Ky.,  News  is  a  Negro  paper, 
and  its  motto  is :   "Man  is  made  of  clay,  and  like 
[186] 


a  meerschaum  pipe  is  more  valuable  when  highly 
colored." 

FROM  the  letter  of  a  colored  gentleman  of 
leisure,  apropos  of  his  wife's  suit  for  divorce: 
"P.  S. :  Also,  honey,  i  hope  while  others  have 
your  company  i  may  have  your  heart."  Here  is 
a  refrain  for  a  sentimental  song. 

SMACK!    SMACK! 

Sir:  May  I  suggest  that  the  matrimonial 
bureau  of  the  Academy  take  steps  to  introduce 
Miss  Irene  V.  Smackem  of  Washington,  D.C., 
and  Mr.  Kissinger  of  Fergus  Falls,  Minn.? 
They  would  make  a  perfect  pair.  KAYE. 

MARCH. 

With  heart  of  gold  and  yellow  frill, 

A  returns,  like  a  daffodil, 

Now  dances  in  the  field  of  gray 

Upon  the  East  at  close  of  day; 

A  joyous  harbinger  to  bring 

The  many  promises  of  spring! 

w. 

IF  no  one  else  cares,  the  compositor  and  proof 
reader  will  be  interested  to  know  that  Ignacy 
Seczupakiewicz  brought  suit  in  Racine  against 
Praxida  Seczupakiewicz. 


REFERRING  to  Beethoven's  anniversary,  Ernest 
Newman  remarks  that  "a  truly  civilized  com 
munity  would  probably  celebrate  a  centenary  by 
prohibiting  all  performances  of  the  master's 
works  for  three  or  five  years,  so  that  the  public's 
deadening  familiarity  with  them  might  wear  off. 
That  would  be  the  greatest  service  it  could  do 
him." 

NEWMAN,  by  the  way,  is  a  piano-player  fan, 
contending  that  when  the  principles  of  beautiful 
tone  production  are  understood,  mechanical 
means  will  probably  come  nearer  to  perfection 
than  the  human  hand.  Mr.  Arthur  Whiting, 
considering  the  horseless  pianoforte  some  time 
ago,  was  also  enthusiastic.  The  h.  p.  is  entirely 
self-possessed,  and  has  even  more  platform  im 
perturbability  than  the  applauded  virtuoso. 
"After  a  few  introductory  sounds,  which  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  music,  and  without  re 
laxing  the  lines  of  its  inscrutable  face,  the  insen 
sate  artist  proceeds  to  show  its  power.  Its  se 
curity  puts  all  hand  playing  to  shame ;  it  never 
hesitates,  it  surmounts  the  highest  difficulties 
without  changing  a  clutch." 

DIXON'S  Elks  were  entertained  t'other  evening 
by  the  Artists  Trio,  and  the  Telegraph  observes 
that  "one  of  the  remarkable  facts  concerning  this 
[188] 


company  is  that  while   they  are  finished  artists 
they  nevertheless  are  delightful  entertainers." 

WE  seldom  listen  to  a  canned-music  machine, 
but  when  we  do  we  realize  the  great  educational 
value  of  the  discs.  They  advise  us  (especially 
the  records  of  singing  comedians)  what  to  avoid. 

THE  prejudices  against  German  music  will  de 
prive  many  gluttons  for  punishment  of  the  oppor 
tunity  to  hear  "Parsifal."  We  remember  one 
lady  who  was  concerned  because  Dalmores  stood 
for  a  long  time  with  his  back  to  the  audience. 
"Why  does  he  have  to  do  that?"  she  asked  her 
companion.  "Because,"  was  the  answer,  "he 
shot  the  Holy  Grail." 

AT  a  concert  in  Elmira,  N.  Y.,  according  to  the 
Telegram,  William  Kincade  sang  "Tolstoi's 
Good  Bye."  Some  one  sings  it  every  now  and 
then. 

AMONG  the  forty-six  professors  removed  from 
the  universities  of  Greece  were,  we  understand, 
all  those  holding  the  chair  of  Greek.  Another 
blow  at  the  classics. 

LITERATURE. 

A  great  deal  of  very  good  writing  has  been 
done  by  invalids,  but  it  is  not  likely  that  anybody 


ever  produced  a  line  worth  remembering  while 
suffering  with  a  plain  cold. 

WE  were  saying  to  our  friend  Dr.  Empedocles 
that  we  kept  our  enthusiasms  green  by  never  tak 
ing  anything  very  seriously.  "That's  interest 
ing,"  said  he:  "I,  too,  have  kept  my  enthusiasm 
fresh,  and  I  have  always  taken  everything 
seriously."  The  two  notions  seemed  irreconcil 
able,  but  we  presently  agreed  that  by  having  a 
great  number  and  variety  of  enthusiasms  one  is 
not  likely  to  ride  any  of  them  to  death.  We  all 
know  persons  who  wear  out  an  enthusiasm  by 
taking  it  as  solemnly  as  they  would  a  religious 
rite. 

WE  were  sure  that  the  headline,  "Mint  at 
Chicago  Greatly  Needed,  .Houston  Says,"  would 
inspire  more  than  one  reader  to  remark  that  the 
mint  is  the  least  important  part  of  the  combina 
tion. 

WE  are  reminded  of  the  experience  of  a  friend 
who  has  a  summer  place  in  Connecticut.  At 
church  the  pastor  announced  a  fund  for  some  war 
charity,  and  asked  for  contributions.  Our  friend 
sent  in  fifty  dollars,  and  a  few  days  later  inquired 
of  the  pastor  how  much  money  had  been  raised, 
"Fifty-five  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents,"  was 
[190] 


the    answer.     The   pastor   had    contributed   five 
dollars. 

SONG. 

[In  the  manner  of  Laura  Blackburn.] 

/  quested  Love  with  timid  feet, 

And  many  qualms  and  perturbations — 

Hoping  yet  fearing  we  should  meet, 
Because  I  knew  my  limitations. 

When  Love  I  spied  I  fetched  a  sigh — 

A  sigh  a  Tristan  might  expire  on: 
"I  must  apologize,"  said  I, 

"For  not  resembling  Georgie  Byron." 

Love  laughed  and  said,  "You  know  I'm  blind" 
And  pinched  my  ear,  the  little  cutie! 

"Her  heart  and  yours  shall  be  entwined, 
Tho'  you  were  twice  as  shy  on  beauty  " 

THROWING  self-interest  to  the  winds,  a  Chicago 
sweetshop  advertises:  "That  we  may  have  a 
part  in  the  effort  to  bring  back  normal  conditions 
and  reduce  the  high  cost  of  living,  our  prices  on 
chocolates  and  bon-bons  are  now  one  dollar  and 
fifty  cents  per  pound." 

PERSONS  who  are  so  o.  f.  as  to  like  rhyme  with 
their  poetry  may  discover  another  reason  for 


their  preference  in  the  following  passage,  which 
Edith  Wyatt  quotes  from  Oscar  Wilde : 

"Rime,  that  exquisite  echo  which  in  the  Muse's 
hollow  hill  creates  and  answers  its  own  voice; 
rime,  which  in  the  hands  of  the  real  artist  be 
comes  not  merely  a  material  element  of  material 
beauty,  but  a  spiritual  element  of  thought  and 
passion  also,  waking  a  new  mood,  it  may  be,  or 
stirring  a  fresh  train  of  ideas,  or  opening  by  mere 
sweetness  and  suggestion  of  sound  some  golden 
door  at  which  the  Imagination  itself  had  knocked 
in  vain;  rime  which  can  turn  man's  utterance  to 
the  speech  of  gods" — 

WE  promised  Miss  Wyatt  that  the  next  time 
we  happened  on  the  parody  of  Housman's  "Lad," 
we  would  reprint  it;  and  yesterday  we  stumbled 
on  it.  Voila ! — 

THE  BELLS  OF  FROGNAL  LANE. 

They  sound  for  early  Service 

The  bells  of  Frognal  Lane; 
And  I  am  thinking  of  the  day 

I  shot  my  cousin  Jane. 

At  Frognal  Lane  the  Service 

Begins  at  half -past  eight, 
And  some  folk  get  there  early 

While  others  turn  up  late. 
[192] 


But,  come  they  late  or  early, 

I  ne'er  shall  be  again 
The  careless  chap  of  days  gone  by 

Before  I  murdered  Jane. 

WE  have  been  looking  over  "Forms  Suggested 
for  Telegraph  Messages,"  issued  by  the  Western 
Union.  While  more  humorous  than  perhaps 
was  intended,  they  fall  short  of  the  forms  sug 
gested  by  Max  Beerbohm,  in  "How  Shall  I  Word 
It?"  As  for  example: 

LETTER  IN  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT  OF 
WEDDING  PRESENT. 

Dear  Lady  Amblesham, 

Who  gives  quickly,  says  the  old  proverb,  gives 
twice.  For  this  reason  I  have  purposely  delayed 
writing  to  you,  lest  I  should  appear  to  thank  you 
more  than  once  for  the  small,  cheap,  hideous  pres 
ent  you  sent  me  on  the  occasion  of  my  recent  wed 
ding.  Were  you  a  poor  woman,  that  little  bowl 
of  ill-imitated  Dresden  china  would  convict  you 
of  tastelessness  merely;  were  you  a  blind  woman, 
of  nothing  but  an  odious  parsimony.  As  you 
have  normal  eyesight  and  more  than  normal 
wealth,  your  gift  to  me  proclaims  you  at  once  a 
Philistine  and  a  miser  (or  rather  did  so  proclaim 
you  until,  less  than  ten  seconds  after  I  had  un 
packed  it  from  its  wrappings  of  tissue  paper,  I 
[193] 


took  it  to  the  open  window  and  had  the  satis 
faction  of  seeing  it  shattered  to  atoms  on  the 
pavement).  But  stay!  I  perceive  a  flaw  in  my 
argument.  Perhaps  you  were  guided  in  your 
choice  by  a  definite  wish  to  insult  me.  I  am  sure, 
on  reflection,  that  this  is  so.  /  shall  not  forget. 
Yours,  etc. 

CYNTHIA  BEAUMARSH. 

PS.  My  husband  asks  me  to  tell  you  to  warn 
Lord  Amblesham  to  keep  out  of  his  way  or  to  as 
sume  some  disguise  so  complete  that  he  will  not 
be  recognized  by  him  and  horsewhipped. 

PPS.  I  am  sending  copies  of  this  letter  to  the 
principal  London  and  provincial  newspapers. 

WE  hope  that  Max  Beerbohm  read  far  enough 
in  Bergson  to  appreciate  what  Mr.  Santayana  says 
of  that  philosopher.  He  seems  to  feel,  wrote  G. 
S.  (we  quote  from  memory),  that  all  systems  of 
philosophy  existed  in  order  to  pour  into  him, 
which  is  hardly  true,  and  that  all  future  systems 
would  flow  out  of  him,  which  is  hardly  necessary. 

To  a  great  number  of  people  all  reasoning  and 
comment  is  superficial  that  is  not  expressed  in  the 
jargon  of  sociology  and  political  economy.  Ex 
pand  a  three-line  paragraph  in  that  manner  and  it 
becomes  profound. 

[194] 


SING  A  SONG  OF  SPRINGTIME. 

Sing  a  song  of  springtime,  things  begin  to  grow; 
Four  and  twenty  bluebirds  darting  to  and  fro; 
When  the  morning  opened  the  birds  began  to  sing. 
Wasn't  that  a  pretty  day  to  set  before  a  king! 

The  King  was  on  the  golf  links,  chopping  up  the  ground ; 
The  Queen  was  in  the  garden,  planting  seeds  around. 
When  the  King  returned,  after  many  wasted  hours, 
"Don't  ever  say,"  the  Queen  exclaimed,  "that  you  are 
fond  of  flowers." 

MIKE  NECKYOKE  drives  a  taxi  in  Rhinelander, 
Wis.,  and  you  have  only  one  guess  at  what  he  used 
to  drive. 

FROM  Philadelphia  comes  word  of  the  nuptials 
of  Mr.  Tunis  and  Miss  Fisch.  Tunis,  we  leap- 
ingly  conclude,  is  the  masculine  form ! 

WE  have  the  card  of  another  chimney  sweep, 
who  is  "sole  agent  for  wind  in  chimneys  and  fur 
naces."  His  name  is  MacDraft,  which  may  be 
another  nom  de  flume. 

THE  anti-fat  brigade  may  be  intrigued  to  learn 
that  Mr.  George  Squibb  of  Wareham,  Eng., 
sought  death  in  the  sea  at  Swanage,  but  was  un 
able  to  stay  under  the  water  because  of  his 
corpulence. 

[195] 


NOT  long  ago  a  mule  broke  a  leg  by  kicking  a 
man  in  the  head,  and  this  week  a  horse  broke  a 
leg  in  the  same  way;  in  each  case  the  man  was  not 
seriously  injured.  Is  this  merely  luck,  or  is  evo 
lution  modifying  the  human  coco? 

MORE  building  is  the  solution  of  the  unemploy 
ment  problem.  The  unemployed  are  never  so  oc 
cupied  and  contented  as  when  watching  the  con 
struction  of  a  sky-scraper. 

HER  publishers  having  announced  that  Ellen 
Glasgow  has  "gone  into  leather,"  Keith  Preston 
explains  that  going  into  leather  is  "like  receiving 
the  accolade,  taking  the  veil,  or  joining  the  Ameri 
can  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters."  And  we 
suppose  that  when  one  goes  into  ooze  leather,  or 
is  padded,  one  may  be  said  to  be  fini. 

A  FEW  MORE  "BEST  BAD  LINES." 

Why  leapest  thou, 
Why  leapest  thou 

So  high  within  my  breast? 
Oh,  stay  thee  now, 
Oh,  stay  thee  now, 

Thou  little  bounder,  rest ! 

— Ruskin  (at  12). 

Something  had  happened  wrong  about  a  bill, 
Which  was  not  drawn  with  true  mercantile  skill, 

[196] 


So  to  amend  it  I  was  told  to  go 

To  seek  the  firm  of  Clutterbuck  &  Co. 

— George  Crabbe. 
But  let  me  not  entirely  overlook 
The  pleasure  gathered  from  the  rudiments 
Of  geometric  science. 

— Wordsworth. 
Israel  in  ancient  days 
Not  only  had  a  view 
Of  Sinai  in  a  blaze, 
But  heard   the   Gospel  too. 

— Cowper. 

Flashed  from  his  bed  the  electric  message  came; 
He  is  no  better;  he  is  much  the  same. 

— A  Cambridge  prize  poem. 

A  HOUSEHOLD  hinter  advises  that  "if  the  thin 
white  curtains  blow  into  the  gas  and  catch  fire 
sew  small  lead  weights  into  the  seams."  Before 
doing  this,  however,  it  would  be  wise  to  turn  in 
an  alarm. 

THE  orchestra  was  playing  too  loud  to  suit  the 
manager,  so  he  complained  to  the  leader.  "The 
passage  is  written  in  forte,"  said  the  latter. 
"Well,  make  it  about  thirty-five." 

SEIZE  HIM,  SCOUTS! 

Sir :    I  submit  for  the  consideration  of  the  new 
school  of  journalism  the  following,  recently  per 
petrated  by   an   aspiring  young  journalist:   "In 
formation  has  been  received   that   Mrs.   Blank, 
[197] 


who  was  spending  a  vacation  of  several  weeks  in 
Colorado,  was  killed  in  an  automobile  accident 
over  long  distance  telephone  by  her  husband." 

CALCITROSUS. 

"THAT'S  GOOD." 

Sir:  A  man  and  three  girls  were  waiting  for 
the  bus.  The  driver  slowed  up  long  enough  to 
call,  "Full  house!"  "Three  queens!"  responded 
the  waiting  cit,  and  turned  disgustedly  away. 

X.  T.  C. 

WHY  BANK  CLERKS  ARE  TIRED. 

Sir:  Voice  over  the  telephone:  "Please  send 
me  two  check  books."  . 

B.C.:    "Large  or  small?" 

V.  o.  t.  t. :  "Well,  I  don't  write  such  very  large 
checks,  but  sometimes  they  amount  to  a  hundred 
dollars."  JANE. 

"WHY  not  make  room  for  daddy?"  queries  the 
editor  of  the  Emporia  Gazette,  with  a  break  ia 
his  voice.  Daddy,  we  hardly  need  say,  is  the 
silently  suffering  member  of  the  household  who 
hasn't  a  large  closet  all  to  himself,  with  rows  of 
shiny  hooks  on  which  to  hang  his  duds. 

Ah,  yes,  why  not  make  room  for  daddy?     It 
is  impossible  to  contemplate  daddy's  pathetic  con 
dition  without   bursting   into   tears.     Votes    for 
women  ?     Huh !     Hooks  for  men ! 
[198] 


"NATION-WIDE." 

How  anybody  can  abide 

That  punk  expression,   "nation-wide" — 

How  one  can  view  unhorrified 
That  vile  locution,  nation-wide, 

I  cannot  see.     I  almost  died 
When  first  I  spotted  nation-wide. 

On  every  hand,  on  every  side, 
On  every  page,  is  nation-wide. 

To  everything  it  is  applied; 

No  matter  what,  it's  nation-wide. 

The  daily  paper's  pet  and  pride: 
They  simply  dote  on  nation-wide. 

It  seem's  if  each  with  t'other  vied 
To  make  the  most  of  nation-wide. 

No  doubt  the  proof-room  Argus-eyed 
Approves  the  "style"  of  nation-wide. 

My  colleagues  fall  for  it,  but  I'd 
Be  damned  if  I'd  use  nation-wide. 

It  gets  my  goat,  and  more  beside, 
That  phrase  atrocious,  nation-wide. 

Abomination  double-dyed, 
Away,  outrageous  "nation-wide"! 

[199] 


SPEAKING  of  local  color,  B.  Humphries  Brown 
and  Bonnie  Blue  were  wedded  in  Indianapolis. 

MARRIED,  in  Evansville,  Ind.,  Ellis  Shears  and 
Golden  Lamb.  Something  might  be  added  about 
wool-gathering. 

EMBARRASSED  by  the  riches  of  modern  litera 
ture  at  our  elbow,  we  took  refuge  in  Jane  Austen, 
and  re-read  "Mansfield  Park,"  marvelling  again 
at  its  freshness.  They  who  hold  that  Mark 
Twain  was  not  a  humorist,  or  that  he  was  at  best 
an  incomplete  humorist,  have  an  argument  in  his 
lack  of  appreciation  of  Jane  Austen. 

ONE  of  the  most  delightful  things  about  the 
author  of  "Mansfield  Park"  that  we  have  seen 
lately  is  an  extract  from  "Personal  Aspects  of 
Jane  Austen,"  by  Miss  Austen-Leigh.  "Each  of 
the  novels,"  she  says,  "gives  a  description,  closely 
interwoven  with  the  story  and  concerned  with  its 
principal  characters,  of  error  committed,  convic 
tion  following,  and  improvement  effected,  all  of 
which  may  be  summed  up  in  the  word  'Re 
pentance.'  " 

ALMOST  as  good  is  Miss  Austen-Leigh's  con 
tradiction  of  the  statement  that  sermons  wearied 
Jane.     She  quotes  the  author's  own  words:     "I 
[200] 


am  very  fond  of  Sherlock's  Sermons,  and  prefer 
them  to  almost  any."  What  a  lot  of  amusement 
she  must  have  had,  shooting  relatives  and  friends 
through  the  hat ! 

WAS  there  ever  a  character  more  delightfully 
detestable  than  Mrs.  Norris?  Was  there  ever 
another  character  presented,  so  alive  and  breath 
ing,  in  so  few  pen  strokes?  Jane  Austen  had  no 
need  of  psychoanalysis. 

As  for  William  Lyons  Phelps'  remark,  which  a 
contrib  has  quoted,  that  "too  much  modern  fiction 
is  concerned  with  unpleasant  characters  whom 
one  would  not  care  to  have  as  friends,"  how 
would  you  like  to  spend  a  week-end  with  the  char 
acters  in  "The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge"?  With 
the  exception  of  the  lady  in  "Two  on  a  Tower/7 
and  one  or  two  others,  Mr.  Hardy's  characters 
are  not  the  sort  that  one  would  care  to  be  cast 
away  with;  yet  will  we  sit  the  night  out,  book  in 
hand,  to  follow  their  sordid  fortunes. 

"WHAT  I  want  to  know  is,"  writes  Fritillaria, 
"whether  you  think  Jane  Austen  drew  Edmund 
and  Fanny  for  models,  or  knew  them  for  the  un 
conscionable  prigs  they  are.  I  am  collecting 
votes."  Well,  we  think  that  Jane  knew  they 
were  prigs,  but  nevertheless  had,  like  ourself,  a 
[201] 


warm  affection  for  Fanny.  Fanny  Price,  Eliza 
beth  Bennet,  and  Anne  (we  forget  her  last  name) 
are  three  of  the  dearest  girls  in  fiction. 

WE  are  reminded  by  F.  B.  T.  that  the  last  name 
of  the  heroine  of  "Persuasion"  was  Elliott. 
Anne  is  our  favorite  heroine — except  when  we 
think  of  Clara  Middleton. 

SPACE  has  been  reserved  for  us  in  the  archaeo 
logical  department  of  the  Field  Museum  for  Pre- 
Dry  wheezes,  which  should  be  preserved  for  a 
curious  posterity.  We  have  filed  No.  I,  which 
runs: 

"First  Comedian:  'Well,  what  made  you  get 
drunk  in  the  first  place?'  Second  Comedian:  'I 
didn't  get  drunk  in  the  first  place.  I  got  drunk  in 
the  last  place.'  " 

OUR  budding  colyumist  (who,  by  the  way,  has 
not  thanked  us  for  our  efforts  in  his  behalf)  will 
want  that  popular  restaurant  gag:  uUse  one 
lump  of  sugar  and  stir  like  hell.  We  don't  mind 
the  noise." 

"WHAT,"  queries  R.  W.  C,  uhas  become  of  the 
little  yellow  crabs  that  floated  in  the  o.  f.  oyster 
stew?"  Junsaypa.  We  never  found  out  what 
became  of  the  little  gold  safety  pins  that  used  to 
come  with  neckties. 

[202] 


AN  innovation  at  the  Murdock  House  in  Sha- 
wano,  Wis.,  is  "Bouillon  in  cups,"  instead  of  the 
conventional  tin  dipper. 

BY  the  way,  has  any  candid  merchant  ever  ad 
vertised  a  Good  Riddance  Sale? 

MUCH  has  been  written  about  Mr.  Balfour  in 
the  last  twelvemonth;  and  Mr.  Balfour  himself 
has  published  a  book,  a  copy  of  which  we  are 
awaiting  with  more  or  less  impatience.  Mr.  Bal 
four  is  not  considered  a  success  as  a  statesman, 
because  he  has  always  looked  upon  politics 
merely  as  a  game;  and  Frank  Harris  once  wrote 
that  if  A.  B.  had  had  to  work  for  a  living  he 
might  have  risen  to  original  thought — whatever 
that  m?,y  imply. 

WHAT  we  have  always  marveled  at  is  Balfour's 
capacity  for  mental  detachment.  In  the  first 
year  of  the  war  he  found  time  to  deliver,  ex 
tempore,  the  Gifford  lectures,  and  in  the  next  year 
he  published  "Theism  and  Humanism."  It  is 
said,  of  course,  that  he  had  a  great  gift  for 
getting  or  allowing  other  people  to  do  his  work 
in  the  war  council  and  the  admiralty;  but  that 
does  not  entirely  explain  his  brimming  mind. 

"THERE  is  a  fine  old  man,"  as  one  of  our  read 
ers  reported  his  Irish  gardener  as  saying  of  A.  B. 
[203] 


"Did  you  know  Mr.  Balfour?"  he  was  asked. 
"Did  I  know  him?"  was  the  reply.  "Didn't  I 
help  rotten-egg  him  in  Manchester  twinty-five 
years  ago!" 

COL.  FANNY  BUTCHER  relates  that  the  average 
reader  who  patronizes  the  New  York  public 
library  prefers  Conan  Doyle's  detective  stories  to 
any  others.  Quite  naturally.  There  is  more 
artistry  in  Poe,  and  the  tales  about  the  French 
man,  Arsene  Lupin,  are  ten  times  more  ingenious 
than  Doyle's;  but  Doyle  has  infused  the  ad 
ventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes  with  the  undefinable 
something  known  as  romance,  and  that  has  pre 
served  them.  The  great  majority  of  detective 
stories  are  merely  ingenious. 

COL.  BUTCHER  says  she  uses  "The  Crock  of 
Gold"  to  test  the  minds  of  people.  A  friend  of 
ours  employs  "Zuleika  Dobson"  for  the  same 
purpose.  What  literary  acid  do  you  apply? 

OUR  compliments  to  Mrs.  Borah,  who  possesses 
a  needed  sense  of  humor.  "If,"  she  is  reported 
as  saying  to  her  husband,  "if  it  were  not  for  the 
pleasures  of  life  you  might  enjoy  it." 

A  LIBRARIAN  confides  to  us  that  she  was  visited 
by  a  young  lady  who  wished  to  see  a  large  map 
[204] 


of  France.  She  was  writing  a  paper  on  the 
battlefields  of  France  for  a  culture  club,  and  she 
just  couldn't  find  Flanders'  Fields  and  No  Man's 
Land  on  any  of  the  maps  in  her  books. 

A  SIGN,  reported  by  B.  R.  J.,  in  a  Cedar  Rapids 
bank  announces:  "We  loan  money  on  Liberty 
bonds.  No  other  security  required."  Showing 
that  here  and  there  you  will  find  a  banker  who  is 
willing  to  take  a  chance. 

THE  first  object  of  the  National  Parks  associa 
tion  is  "to  fearlessly  defend  the  national  parks 
and  monuments  against  assaults  of  private  in 
terests."  May  we  not  hope  that  the  w.  k.  in 
finitive  also  may  be  preserved  intact? 

A  MISSIONARY  from  the  Chicago  Woman's  Club 
lectured  in  Ottawa  on  better  English  and  less 
slang,  and  the  local  paper  headed  its  story:  "Bum 
Jabber  Binged  on  Beezer  by  Jane  With  Trick 
Lingo." 

YOUNG  GRIMES  tells  us  that  he  would  like  to 
share  in  the  advantages  of  Better  Speech  weeks, 
but  does  not  know  where  to  begin.  We  have 
started  him  off  with  the  word  "February."  If  at 
the  end  of  the  week  he  can  pronounce  it  Feb-ru-ary 
we  shall  give  him  the  word  "address." 
[205] 


"THIS,  being  Better  English  week,  everyone  is 
doing  their  best  to  improve  their  English." — 
Quincy,  Mich.,  Herald. 

Still,  Jane  Austen  did  it. 

BETTER  ENGLISH  IN  THE  BEANERY. 

Waiter:     "Small  on  two — well!" 

Chef:     "Small  well  on  two !"  TIP. 

HAPPY  THOUGHT. 

This  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  singers, 
We  need  not  be  bluffed  any  longer  by  ringers. 


[206] 


The  Magic  Kit. 


A  FAIRY  TALE  FOR  SYMPATHETIC 
ELDERS. 


ONCE  upon  a  time,  not  far  removed  from 
yesterday,  there  lived  a  poor  book  reviewer 
named  Abner  Skipp.  He  was  a  kindly  man  and 
an  excellent  husband  and  a  most  congenial  soul 
to  chat  with,  for  he  possessed  a  store  of  informa 
tion  on  the  most  remote  and  bootless  subjects 
drawn  from  his  remarkable  library — an  accumu 
lation  of  volumes  sent  to  him  for  review,  and 
which  he  had  been  unable  to  dispose  of  to  the 
dealers  in  second-hand  books.  For  you  are  to 
understand  that  too  little  literary  criticism  is  done 
on  a  cash  basis.  Occasionally  a  famous  author, 
like  Mr.  Howells,  is  paid  real  money  to  write 
something  about  Mr.  James,  or  Mr.  James  is  sub 
stantially  rewarded  for  writing  about  Mr.  How- 
ells,  and  heads  of  departments  and  special 
workers  are  handsomely  remunerated;  but  the 
journeyman  reviewer  is  paid  in  books;  and  these 
are  the  source  of  his  income. 

Thus,  every  morning  in  the  busy  season,  or  per- 

haps  once  a  week  when  trade  was  dull,  Abner 

Skipp  journeyed  from  the  suburbs  to  the  city  with 

his  pack  of  books  on  his  back,    and  made   the 

[207] 


rounds  of  the  second-hand  shops,  disposing  of  his 
wares  for  whatever  they  would  fetch.  Novels, 
especially  what  are  known  as  the  "best  sellers," 
commanded  good  prices  if  they  were  handled,  like 
fruit,  without  delay;  but  they  were  such  perish 
able  merchandise  that  oftentimes  a  best  seller  was 
dead  before  Abner  could  get  it  to  market;  and  as 
he  frequently  reviewed  the  same  novel  for  half  a 
dozen  employers,  and  therefore  had  half  a  dozen 
copies  of  it  in  his  pack,  the  poor  wretch  was  sadly 
out  of  pocket,  being  compelled  to  sell  the  dead 
ones  to  the  junkman  for  a  few  pennies. 

Abner  Skipp  was  an  industrious  artisan  and 
very  skillful  at  his  trade;  working  at  top  speed, 
he  could  review  more  than  a  hundred  books  in  a 
day  of  eight  hours.  In  a  contest  of  literary 
critics  held  in  Madison  Square  Garden,  New 
York,  Abner  won  first  prize  in  all  three  events — 
reviewing  by  publisher's  slip,  reviewing  by  cover, 
and  reviewing  by  title  page.  But  shortly  after 
this  achievement  he  had  had  the  misfortune  to 
sprain  his  right  arm  in  reviewing  a  new  edition  of 
the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  which  accident  so 
curtailed  his  earning  power  that  he  fell  behind  in 
a  money  way,  and  was  compelled  to  mortgage  his 
home.  But  Abner  Skipp  was  a  cheerful,  buoyant 
soul;  and  as  his  arm  grew  better  and  he  was  again 
able  to  wield  the  implements  of  his  trade,  he  set 
bravely  to  work  to  mend  his  broken  fortunes. 


II. 

If  Abner  Skipp  had  had  nothing  but  popular 
novels  to  review  he  would  assuredly  have  perished 
of  starvation,  but  frequently  he  received  a  medi 
cal  work,  or  a  history,  or  a  volume  of  sportive 
philosophy  by  William  James,  or  some  such 
valuable  work,  which  he  could  sell  for  a  round 
sum.  There  was  always  plenty  to  do — all  the 
best  magazines  employed  him,  and  twice  in  the 
year — a  month  in  spring  and  a  month  in  fall — 
books  came  to  him  in  such  numbers  that  the  ex 
pressman  dumped  them  into  the  house  through 
a  shute  like  so  many  coals. 

Mrs.  Skipp  assisted  her  husband  all  she  could, 
but  being  a  frail  little  woman  she  was  able  to 
work  on  only  the  lightest  fiction.  Angelica,  the 
oldest  daughter,  cleared  the  book  bin  of  a  good 
deal  of  poetry  and  gift  books,  and  even  Grandpa 
Skipp  was  intrusted  with  a  few  juveniles. 

But  none  of  the  family  was  more  helpful  than 
little  Harold,  who,  after  school  time,  worked  side 
by  side  with  his  father,  trimming  the  ready  made 
review  slips  which  publishers  send  out  with  books, 
and  seeing  that  the  paste  pot  never  got  empty  or 
the  paste  too  thick.  Harold,  as  his  father  often 
proudly  observed,  was  a  born  book  reviewer. 
From  infancy  it  was  observed  that  the  outside 
of  a  book  always  interested  him  more  than  the  in 
side,  and  once  when  his  school  teacher  directed 
[209] 


him  to  write  a  sentence  containing  the  word 
"book,"  he  wrote :  "The  book  is  attractively 
bound  and  is  profusely  illustrated." 

One  evening,  in  the  very  busiest  week  of  the 
busy  season,  little  Harold's  was  the  only  bright 
face  at  the  supper  table.  Abner  Skipp  had  had  a 
bad  day  in  the  city;  Mrs.  Skipp  and  Angelica 
were  exhausted  from  reviewing  and  household 
cares,  and  Grandpa  was  peevish  because  Abner 
had  taken  the  "Pea  Green  Fairy  Book"  away 
from  him  and  given  him  instead  a  "Child's  His 
tory  of  the  Congo  Free  State." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Abner?"  his  wife  asked 
him  when  the  others  of  the  family  had  retired. 
"Does  your  arm  hurt  you  again?" 

"No,  wife,"  replied  Abner  Skipp.  "My  arm 
does  not  trouble  me;  I  have  handled  only  the 
lightest  literature  for  the  last  fortnight.  Alas! 
it  is  the  same  old  worry.  The  interest  on  the 
mortgage  will  be  due  again  next  week,  and  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  the  cellar  is  so  full  of  books  that  I 
can  scarcely  get  into  it,  we  have  not  a  dollar  above 
the  sum  required  to  meet  our  monthly  bills." 

III. 

"Alas !"   exclaimed  the  hapless  Abner   Skipp, 

next  morning,  "it  seems  as  if  nothing  was  being 

published  this  fall  except  popular  novels,  and  I 

obtained  an  average  of  less  than  twenty  cents  on 

[210] 


the  last  sackload  I  took  to  town,  not  counting  the 
dead  ones  which  I  sold  to  the  junkman." 

"If  only  there  were  some  way  of  keeping  them 
alive  for  a  few  days  longer!"  said  Mrs.  Skipp. 
"If  one  could  only  stimulate  the  heart  action  by 
injecting  strychnine !" 

"Or  even  embalm  them,"  said  Abner,  sharing 
his  wife's  grewsome  humor.  "But  no;  it  is  im 
possible  to  deceive  a  second-hand  bookseller.  He 
seems  to  know  to  the  minute  when  a  novel  is 
dead,  and  declines  to  turn  his  shop  into  a  literary 
morgue."  The  poor  man  sighed.  "If  my  em 
ployers  would  send  me  a  few  volumes  of 
biography,  or  an  encyclopedia,  or  a  set  of  Shake 
speare,  we  could  easily  meet  the  interest  on  the 
mortgage." 

"I  wish,  Abner,  that  I  could  be  of  more  help 
to  you,"  said  Mrs.  Skipp.  "If  I  could  break 
myself  of  the  habit  of  glancing  at  the  last  chapter 
of  a  novel  before  reviewing  it,  I  could  do  ever  so 
many  more.  Angelica  is  even  more  thoughtless 
than  I.  The  poor  child  declares  that  some  of  the 
stories  look  so  interesting  that  she  forgets  her 
work  completely  and  actually  begins  to  read  them. 
As  for  Grandpa,  he  always  was  a  great  reader, 
and  consequently  has  no  head  at  all  for  review- 
ing." 

"If  Harold  were  a  few  years  older "  mused 

Abner.  "But  there,  wife,  we  must  not  spend  in 

[211] 


vain  repining  the  scant  hours  allotted  to  us  for 
sleep.  Perhaps  the  expressman  will  bring  us  some 
scientific  books  to-morrow.  Quite  a  number  were 
on  Appletree's  fall  list." 

Abner  Skipp  kissed  his  wife  affectionately,  and 
presently  the  house  was  dark  and  still.  Mrs. 
Skipp,  worn  out  by  the  day's  work,  went  quickly 
to  sleep;  but  Abner,  haunted  by  the  mortgage, 
passed  a  restless  night.  Several  times  he  fancied 
he  heard  a  noise  in  the  cellar,  as  if  the  expressman 
were  dumping  another  ton  of  books  into  the  bin. 
At  last,  just  before  dawn,  there  came  a  loud 
thump,  as  if  a  volume  of  Herbert  Spencer's  Auto 
biography  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  Getting  out 
of  bed  quietly  so  that  his  weary  wife  should  not 
be  disturbed,  Abner  went  to  the  cellar  stairway 
and  listened. 

A  clicking  sound  was  distinctly  audible,  and  a 
faint  light  gleamed  below. 

IV. 

Cautiously  descending  the  stair,  Abner  Skipp 
came  upon  so  strange  a  sight  that  with  difficulty 
he  restrained  himself  from  crying  out  his  aston 
ishment.  Little  Harold  was  seated  before  a 
queer  mechanism,  which  resembled  a  typewriter, 
spinning  wheel,  and  adding  machine  combined, 
engaged  in  turning  the  tons  of  books  around  him 
into  reviews,  as  the  miller's  daughter  spun  the 

[212] 


straw  into  gold,  in  the  ancient  tale  of  "Rumpel- 
stiltzkin." 

"Child,  what  does  this  mean?"  cried  the  be 
wildered  Abner  Skipp.  "Father,"  replied  Harold, 
"I  am  lifting  the  mortgage.  Not  long  ago  I  saw 
among  the  advertisements  in  the  Saturday  Home 
Herald  an  announcement  of  a  Magic  Kit  for 
book  reviewers,  with  a  capacity  of  300  books  per 
hour.  Fortunately  I  had  enough  money  in  my 
child's  bank  to  pay  the  first  installment  on  this 
wonderful  outfit  which  came  to-day.  Is  it  not  a 
marvelous  invention,  father?  Even  Grandpa 
could  work  it !"  Trembling  with  eagerness  Ab 
ner  Skipp  bent  over  the  Magic  Kit,  while  little 
Harold  explained  the  working  of  the  various 
parts. 

To  review  a  book  all  that  was  necessary  was 
to  press  a  few  keys,  pull  a  lever  or  two,  and  the 
thing  was  done.  Reviewing  by  publisher's  slip 
was  simplicity  itself;  the  slips  were  dropped  into 
a  hopper,  and  presently  emerged  neatly  gummed 
to  sheets  of  copy  paper;  and  if  an  extract  from 
the  book  were  desired,  a  page  was  quickly  torn 
out  and  fed  in  with  the  slip.  Reviewing  by  title 
page  was  almost  as  rapid.  The  operator  type 
wrote  the  title,  author's  name,  publisher,  price, 
and  number  of  pages,  and  then  pulled  certain 
levers  controlling  the  necessary  words  and 
phrases,  such  as — 


"This  latest  work  is  not  likely  to  add  to  the 
author's  reputation" ;  or — 

"The  book  will  appeal  chiefly  to  specialists"; 
or — 

"An  excellent  tale  to  while  away  an  idle  hour" ; 
or — 

"The  book  is  attractively  bound  and  is  pro 
fusely  illustrated." 

"Father,"  said  little  Harold,  his  face  glowing, 
"to-morrow  we  will  hire  a  furniture  van  and  take 
all  these  books  to  the  city." 

"My  boy,"  cried  Abner  Skipp,  folding  his  little 
son  in  his  arms,  "you  are  the  little  fairy  in  our 
home.  Surely  no  other  could  have  done  this  job 
more  neatly  or  with  greater  dispatch;  and  no 
fairy  wand  could  be  more  wonder-working  than 
this  truly  Magic  Kit." 


[214]  . 


A  LINE-O'-TYPE  OR  TWO 


"Fay  ce  que  voulctras" 


TO  B.  L.  T. 

(Quintus   Horatius   Flaccus   loquitur.) 

Maecenas  sprang  from  royal  line, 

You  spring  a  Line  diurnal. 
(Perhaps  my  joke  is  drawn  too  fine 

For  readers  of  your  journal.) 

But  what  I  started  out  to  say, 

Across  the  gulf  of  ages, 
Is  that,  in  our  old  Roman  day, 

My  patron  paid  me  wages. 

No  barren  wreath  of  fame  was  mine 
When  Mac  approved  my  stuff, 

But  casks  of  good  Falernian  wine, 
And  slaves  and  gold  enough. 

And  last,  to  keep  the  wolf  away 
And  guard  my  age  from  harm, 

He  gave  me  in  his  princely  way 
My  little  Sabine  farm. 

But  now,  forsooth,  your  merry  crew— 

O   Tempora!     O  Mores!— 
What  do  they  ever  get  from  you — 

Your  Laura,  Pan,  Dolores? 

[215] 


They  fill  the  Line  with  verse  and  wheeze, 

To  them  your  fame  is  due. 
What  do  they  ever  get  for  these? 

Maecenas?     Ha!  Ha!     You? 

So  as  I  quaff  my  spectral  wine. 

At  ease  beside  the  Styx, 
Would  I  contribute  to  the  Line? 

Nequaquam !     Nunquam !     Nix ! 

CAMPION. 

OUR  compliments  to  Old  Man  Flaccus,  whose 
witty  message  reminds  us  to  entreat  contribs  to 
be  patient,  as  we  are  snowed  under  with  offerings. 
For  a  week  or  more  we  have  been  trying  to  horn 
into  the  column  with  some  verses  of  our  own 
composing. 


BRIGHT  SAYINGS  OF  MOTHER. 

My  respected  father  came  to  breakfast  on  New 
Year's  Day  remarking  that  he  had  treated  him 
self  to  a  present  by  donning  a  new  pair  of 
suspenders,  whereupon  mother  remarked:  "Well 
braced  for  the  New  Year,  as  it  were  !"  C.  T.  S. 

AFTER  some  years  of  editing  stories  of  events 
in  high  society,  a  gentleman  at  an  adjacent  desk 
believes  he  has  learned  the  chief  duty  of  a  butler. 
It  is  to  call  the  police. 


"THAT  STRAIN  AGAIN— IT  HAD  A  DYING 
SNORT." 

Sir:  Speaking  of  soft  music  and  the  pearly 
gates,  S.  T.  Snortum  is  owner  and  demonstrator 
of  the  music  store  at  St.  Peter,  Minnesota. 

S.  W.  E. 

WARREN,  O.,  has  acquired  a  lady  barber,  and 
dinged  if  her  name  isn't  Ethel  Gillette. 

No  doubt  the  Manistee  News-Advocate  has  its 
reason  for  running  the  "hogs  received"  news 
under  the  heading  "Hotel  Arrivals." 

"I  SEE  by  an  announcement  by  the  Columbia 
Mills  that  window  shades  are  down,"  communi 
cates  W.  H.  B.  "Can  it  be  that  the  Columbia 
Mills  people  are  ashamed  of  something?" 
Mebbe.  Or  perhaps  they  are  fixing  prices. 

"FOR  the  lovamike,"  requests  the  Head  Scene- 
Shifter,  "keep  the  Admirable  Crichton  out  of  the 
Column.  We  have  twenty-five  presses,  and  it 
takes  a  guard  at  each  press  to  prevent  it  from  ap 
pearing  Admiral  Crichton." 

PITTSBURGH  Shriners  gave  a  minstrel  show  the 
other  night,   and   the   inspired   reporter   for  the 
Post  mentions   that   "an   intermission   separated 
the  two  parts  and  broke  the  monotony." 
[217] 


A  BACH  chaconne  is  on  the  orchestra  pro 
gramme  this  week.  Some  one  remarked  that  he 
did  not  care  for  chaconnes,  which  moved  us  to 
quote  what  some  one  else  (we  think  it  was  Her 
man  Devries)  said:  "Chaconne  a  son  gout." 

"PoND  AND  POND  Donate  $500  to  Union  Pool 
Fund." — Ann  Arbor  item. 
Quite  so. 

IF  we  had  not  been  glancing  through  the  real 
estate  notes  we  should  never  have  known  that 
Mystical  Schriek  lives  in  Evansville,  Ind. 

FROM  the  Illinois  Federal  Reporter:  "Village 
of  Westville  vs.  Albert  Rainwater.  Mr.  Rain 
water  is  charged  with  violation  of  the  ordinance 
in  regard  to  the  sale  of  soft  drinks."  Can  Al 
have  added  a  little  hard  water  to  the  mixture? 


MEMORY  TESTS  FOR  THE  HOME. 

Sir:  Friend  wife  was  naming  authors  of 
various  well  known  novels,  as  I  propounded  their 
titles.  Follows  the  result: 

Me:  "The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii."  She: 
"Dante." 

"Les  Miserables."     "Huguenot." 

"Adam  Bede."     "Henry  George." 
[218] 


"Vanity  Fair."     "Why,  that's  in  Ecclesiastes." 

"Ben  Hur."     "Rider  Haggard." 

"The     Pilgrim's     Progress."     "John     Barley 


corn." 


"Don  Quixote."      (No  reply.) 
"Waverly."     "Oh,  did  Waverly  write  that?" 
"Anna  Karenina."     "Count  Leon  Trotsky." 

J.  C. 

WE  see  by  the  Fargo  papers  that  Mrs.  Bernt 
Wick  gave  a  dinner  recently,  and  we  hope  that 
Miss  Candle,  the  w.  k.  night  nurse,  was  among 
the  guests. 

LEVI  BEIN'  A  GOOD  SPORT. 

Sir:  Levi  Frost,  the  leading  druggist  of  Milton 
Falls,  Vt.,  set  a  big  bottle  of  medicine  in  his  show 
window  with  a  sign  sayin'  he'd  give  a  phono 
graph  to  anybody  who  could  tell  how  many 
spoonfuls  there  was  in  the  bottle.  Jed  Ballard 
was  comin'  downstreet,  and  when  he  seen  the  sign 
he  went  and  he  sez,  sezzee,  "Levi,"  sezzee,  "if 
you  had  a  spoon  big  enough  to  hold  it  all,  you'd 
have  just  one  spoonful  in  that  bottle."  And,  by 
Judas  Priest,  Levi  give  him  the  phonograph  right 
off.  HIRAM. 

"BASING  his  sermon  on  the  words  of  Gesta  Ro- 
manorum,  who  in  1473  said,  'What  I  spent  I  had, 
[219] 


what  I  kept  I  lost,  what  I  gave  I  have/  the 
Rev.  Albert  H.  Zimmerman,"  etc. — Washing 
ton  Post. 

As  students  of  the  School  of  Journalism  ought 
to  know,  the  philosopher  Gesta  Romanorum  was 
born  in  Sunny,  Italy,  although  some  historians 
claim  Merry,  England,  and  took  his  doctor's  de 
gree  at  the  University  of  Vivela,  in  Labelle, 
France.  His  Latin  scholarship  was  nothing  to 
brag  of,  but  he  was  an  ingenious  writer.  He  is 
best  known,  perhaps,  as  the  author  of  the  saying, 
"Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day,"  and  the  line  which 
graced  the  flyleaf  of  his  first  edition,  "Viae 
omniae  in  Romam  adducunt." 

U!T  is  a  great  misfortune,"  says  Lloyd  George, 
"that  the  Irish  and  the  English  are  never  in  the 
same  temper  at  the  same  time."  Nor  is  that  con 
juncture  encouragingly  probable.  But  there  is 
hope.  Energy  is  required  for  strenuous  rebel 
lion,  and  energy  is  converted  into  heat  and  dissi 
pated.  If,  or  as,  the  solar  system  is  running 
down,  its  stock  of  energy  is  constantly  diminish 
ing;  and  so  the  Irish  Question  will  eventually 
settle  itself,  as  will  every  other  mess  on  this 
slightly  flattened  sphere. 

WHENEVER  you  read  about  England  crumbling, 
turn  to  its  automobile  Blue  Book  and  observe 
[220] 


this:  "It  must  be  remembered  that  in  all 
countries  except  England  and  New  Zealand  auto 
mobiles  travel  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  road." 

THE  first  sign  of  "crumbling"  on  the  part  of  the 
British  empire  that  we  have  observed  is  the  wel 
come  extended  to  the  "quick  lunch."  That  may 
get  'em. 

LOST  AND  FOUND. 

[Song  in  the  manner  of  Laura  Blackburn.] 

Whilst  I  mused  in  vacant  mood 

By  a  wild-thyme  banklet, 
Love  passed  glimmering  thro'  the  wood, 

Lost  her  golden  anklet. 

Followed  I  as  fleet  as  dart 

With  the  golden  token; 
But  she  vanished — and  my  heart, 

Like  the  clasp,  is  broken. 

Such  a  little  hoop  of  gold! 

She  .  .   .  but  how  compare  her? 
Till  Orion's  belt  grow  cold 

I  shall  quest  the  wearer. 

Next  my  heart  I've  worn  it  since, 

More  than  life  I  prize  it, 
And,  like  Cinderella's  prince, 

I  must  advertise  it. 

[221] 


WOULD  you  mind  contributing  a  small  sum,  say 
a  dollar  or  two,  to  the  Keats  Memorial  Fund. 
We  thought  not.  It  is  a  privilege  and  a  pleasure. 
The  object  is  to  save  the  house  in  which  the  poet 
lived  during  his  last  years,  and  in  which  he  did 
some  of  his  best  work.  The  names  of  all  con 
tributors  will  be  preserved  in  the  memorial  house, 
so  it  would  be  a  nice  idea  to  send  your  dollar  or 
two  in  the  name  of  your  small  child  or  grand 
child,  who  may  visit  Hampstead  when  he  grows 
up.  Still  standing  in  the  garden  at  Hampstead 
is  the  plum  tree  under  which  Keats  wrote, 

"Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down." 

AMERICANS  who  speak  at  French  should  con 
fine  their  conversation  to  other  Americans  simi 
larly  talented.  They  should  not  practise  on 
French  people,  whose  delicate  ear  is  no  more 
proof  against  impure  accent  than  a  stone  is  proof 
against  dripping  water.  The  mistake  which 
English  speaking  people  make  is  assuming  that 
French  is  merely  a  language,  whereas,  even  in 
Paris,  the  speaking  of  it  as  much  as  accomplish 
ment  as  singing,  or  painting  on  china.  Many 
gifted  Frenchmen,  like  M.  Viviani,  Anatole 
France,  and  some  other  Academicians,  speak 
French  extremely  well,  but  even  these  live  in  hope 
of  improvement,  of  some  day  mastering  the  finest 
[222] 


shades  of  nasality  and  cadence,  the  violet  rays  of 
rhythm. 

MR.  MASEFIELD,  the  poet,  does  not  believe  that 
war  times  nourish  the  arts.  The  human  brain 
does  its  best  work,  he  says,  when  men  are  happy. 
How  perfectly  true !  Look  at  ancient  Greece. 
She  was  continually  at  war,  and  what  did  the 
Grecians  do  for  art?  A  few  poets,  a  few 
philosophers  and  statesmen,  a  few  sculptors,  and 
the  story  is  told.  On  the  other  hand,  look  at 
England  in  Shakespeare's  time.  The  English 
people  were  inordinately  happy,  for  there  were 
no  wars  to  depress  them,  barring  a  few  little  tiffs 
with  the  French  and  the  Spanish,  and  one  or  two 
domestic  brawls.  The  human  brain  does  its  best 
work  when  men  are  happy,  indeed.  There  was 
Dante,  a  cheery  old  party.  But  why  multiply 
instances? 

HAVING  read  a  third  of  H.  M.  Tomlinson's 
"The  Sea  and  the  Jungle,"  we  pause  to  offer  the 
uncritical  opinion  that  this  chap  gets  as  good  sea- 
water  into  his  copy  as  Conrad,  and  that,  in  the 
item  of  English,  he  can  write  rings  around 
Joseph. 

LIKE   others   who   have   traversed   delectable 
landscapes    and    recorded    their    impressions,    in 
[223] 


"memory  or  in  notebooks,  we  have  tried  to  com 
municate  to  other  minds  the  "incommunicable 
thrill  of  things" :  a  pleasant  if  unsuccessful  en 
deavor.  When  you  are  new  at  it,  you  ascribe 
your  failure  to  want  of  skill,  but  you  come  to 
realize  that  skill  will  not  help  you  very  much. 
You  will  do  well  if  you  hold  the  reader's  interest 
in  your  narrative:  you  will  not,  except  by  acci 
dent,  make  him  see  the  thing  you  have  seen,  or 
experience  the  emotion  you  experienced. 

So  vivid  a  word  painter  as  Tomlinson  acknowl 
edges  that  the  chance  rewards  which  make  travel 
worth  while  are  seldom  matters  that  a  reader 
would  care  to  hear  about,  for  they  have  no  sub 
stance.  "They  are  no  matter.  They  are  untrans 
latable  from  the  time  and  place.  Such  fair  things 
cannot  be  taken  from  the  magic  moment.  They 
are  not  provender  for  notebooks." 

HE  quotes  what  the  Indian  said  to  the  mission 
ary  who  had  been  talking  to  him  of  heaven.  "Is 
it  like  the  land  of  the  musk-ox  in  summer,  when 
the  mist  is  on  the  lakes,  and  the  loon  cries  very 
often?"  These  lakes  are  not  charted,  and  the 
Indian  heard  the  loon's  call  in  his  memory;  but 
we  could  not  better  describe  the  delectable  lands 
through  which  we  have  roamed.  "When  the 
mist  is  on  the  lakes  and  the  loon  cries  very  often." 
What  traveler  can  better  that? 
[224] 


OLD  Bill  Taft  pulled  a  good  definition  of  a  gen 
tleman  t'other  day.  A  gentleman,  said  he,  is  a 
man  who  never  hurts  anyone's  feelings  uninten 
tionally. 

MR.  GENEROUS  is  the  claim  agent  for  the  New 
Haven  railroad  at  New  Britain,  Conn.,  but  a 
farmer  whose  cow  wandered  upon  the  rails  tells 
us  that  he  lost  money  by  the  settlement. 

WILLIAM  BENZINE,  who  lives  near  Rio,  Wis., 
was  filling  his  flivver  tank  by  the  light  of  a  lan 
tern  when But  need  we  continue? 

OUR  notion  of  a  person  of  wide  tastes  is  one 
who  likes  almost  everything  that  isn't  popular. 

SPEAKING  of  the  Naval  Station,  you  may  have 
forgotten  the  stirring  ballad  which  we  wrote  about 
it  during  the  war.  If  so — 

YEO-HEAVE-HO! 

It  was  a  gallant  farmer  lad 

Enlisted  in  the  navy. 
"Give  me,"  said  he,  "the  deep  blue  sea, 

The  ocean  wide  and  wavy!" 

A  sailor's  uniform  he'd  don, 

And  never  would  he  doff  it. 
He  packed  his  grip,  and  soon  was  on 

His  way  to  Captain  Mofrett. 
[225] 


In  cap  of  white  and  coat  of  blue 

He  labored  for  the  nation, 
A  member  of  the  salty  crew 

That  worked  the  Naval  Station. 

He  soon  became  the  best  of  tars, 

A  seaman  more  than  able, 
By  sweeping  streets,  and  driving  cars, 

And  waiting  on  the  table. 

He  guarded  gates,  and  shoveled  snow, 
And  worked  upon  the  highway. 

"All  lads,"  said  he,  "should  plough  the  sea, 
And  would  if  I  had  my  way." 

Week-end  he  took  a  trolley  car, 

And  to  the  city  hied  him, 
Alongside  of  another  tar 

Who  offered  for  to  guide  him. 

The  train  rolled  o'er  a  trestle  high, 

The  river  ran  below  him. 
"Well,  I'll  be  blamed !"  our  tar  exclaimed, 

And  grabbed  his  pal  to  show  him. 

"Yes,  dash  my  weeping  eyes!"  he  cried. 

"That's  water,  sure,  by  gravy! 
The  first  blue  water  I  have  spied 

Since  joining  of  the  navy!" 

****•• 

Now,  "landsmen  all,"  the  moral's  plain: 

Our  navy  still  is  arming, 
And  if  you'd  plough  the  well  known  main, 

You'd  best  begin  by  fanning. 
[226] 


If  you  would  head  a  tossing  prow 

Among  our  navigators, 
Get  up  at  morn  and  milk  the  cow, 

And  yeo-heave-ho  the  'taters. 

Do  up  your  chores,  and  do  'em  brown, 

And  learn  to  drive  a  flivver; 
And  some  day,  when  you  go  to  town, 

You'll  see  the  raging  river. 

THE  speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons,  who, 
"trembling  slightly  with  emotion,"  declared  the 
sitting  suspended,  needs  in  his  business  the  calm 
of  the  late  Fred  Hall.  While  Mr.  Hall  was  city 
editor  of  this  journal  of  civilization  an  irate  sub 
scriber  came  in  and  mixed  it  with  a  reporter.  Mr. 
Hall  approached  the  pair,  who  were  rolling  on  the 
floor,  and,  peering  near-sightedly  at  them,  ad 
dressed  the  reporter :  "Mr.  Smith,  when  you  have 
finished  with  this  gentleman,  there  is  a  meeting 
at  the  Fourth  Methodist  church  which  I  should 
like  to  have  you  cover." 

IN  his  informing  and  stimulating  collection  of 
essays,  "On  Contemporary  Literature,"  recently 
published,  Mr.  Stuart  P.  Sherman  squanders  an 
entire  chapter  on  Theodore  Dreiser.  It  seems  to 
us  that  he  might  have  covered  the  ground  and 
saved  most  of  his  space  by  quoting  a  single  sen 
tence  from  Anatole  France,  who,  referring  to 
[227] 


Zola,  wrote:  "He  has  no  taste,  and  I  have  come 
to  believe  that  want  of  taste  is  that  mysterious  sin 
of  which  the  Scripture  speaks,  the  greatest  of  sins, 
the  only  one  which  will  not  be  forgiven. " 

"WHAT  is  art?"  asked  jesting  Pilate.  And  be 
fore  he  could  beat  it  for  his  chariot  someone  an 
swered:  "Art  is  a  pitcher  that  you  can't  pour 
anything  out  of." 

IT  is  much  easier  to  die  than  it  is  to  take  a 
vacation.  A  man  who  is  summoned  to  his  last 
long  voyage  may  set  his  house  in  order  in  an 
hour :  a  few  words,  written  or  dictated,  will  dis 
pose  of  his  possessions,  and  his  heirs  will  gladly 
attend  to  the  details.  This  done,  he  may  fold 
his  hands  on  his  chest  and  depart  this  vexatious 
life  in  peace. 

IT  is  quite  another  matter  to  prepare  for  a  few 
weeks  away  from  town.  There  are  bills  to  be 
paid;  the  iceman  and  the  milkman  and  the  laun- 
dryman  must  be  choked  off,  and  the  daily  paper 
restrained  from  littering  the  doorstep.  There 
is  hair  to  be  cut,  and  teeth  to  be  tinkered,  and  so 
on.  In  short,  it  takes  days  to  stop  the  machinery 
of  living  for  a  fortnight,  and  days  to  start  it 
going  again.  But,  my  dear,  one  must  have  a 
change. 

[228] 


JUST  A  REHEARSAL. 

[From  the  Elgin  News.] 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Perce  left  immediately  on  a  short 
honeymoon  trip.  The  "real"  honeymoon  trip 
is  soon  to  be  made,  into  various  parts  of  Virginia. 

LAME  IN  BOTH  REGISTERS? 

[From  the  Decatur  Review.] 

Dr.  O.  E.  Williams,  who  is  conducting  revival 
services  in  the  First  United  Brethren  church, 
spoke  to  a  large  audience  on  Friday  night  on 
"Lame  in  Both  Feet."  Mrs.  Williams  sang  a 
solo  in  keeping  with  the  sermon. 

FLORAL  POME. 

(Sign  on  Ashland  Ave.:  "Vlk  the  Florist/') 
For  flowers  fragrant,  sweet  as  milk, 
Be  sure  to  call  on  Florist  Vlk. 

Roses,  lilies,  for  the  folks 

Can  be  purchased  down  at  Vlk's. 

Of  bouquets  there  is  no  lack 
At  the  flower  shop  of  Vlk. 

Orchids,  pansies,  daisies,  phlox, 
All  are  sold  at  Florist  Vlk's. 

A  wondrous  place,  a  shop  de  luxe 
Is  this  here  store  of  William  Vlk's. 

F.  E.  C.  Jr. 
[229] 


THE  Boston  aggregation,  by  the  way  (a  witty 
New  Yorker,  a  musician,  informed  us),  is  some 
times  referred  to  as  the  Swiss  Family  Higginson 
and  the  Bocheton  Symphony  orchestra. 

TOUCHING  on  musical  criticism,  a  Chicago 
writer  who  visited  St.  Louis  to  report  a  music 
festival  had  a  few  drinks  before  the  opening  con 
cert.  His  telegraphed  review  began:  "Music  is 
frozen  architecture." 

ASIDE  from  his  super-mathematics,  Dr.  Ein 
stein  is  understandable.  He  prefers  Bach  to 
Wagner,  Shakespeare  to  Goethe,  and  he  would 
rather  walk  in  the  valleys  than  climb  the  moun 
tains. 

THE  SECOND  POST. 

[Example  of  pep  and  tact.] 

Dear  Sir:  We  absolutely  cannot  understand 
why  you  do  not  buy  stock  in  the propo 
sition  or  why  we  have  not  heard  from  you  in  ref 
erence  to  our  letter.  A  man  in  your  position 
should  be  able  to  invest  some  of  his  earnings  into 
a  proposition  that  should  turn  out  a  big  success. 
It  seems  to  us  that  the  more  rotten  a  proposition 
is  the  better  the  people  will  buy. 

Now  if  you  can  explain  this  as  to  why  the  peo 
ple  bite  on  the  many  and  poor  schemes  that  are 
[230] 


out  to  the  public  as  there  has  been  in  the  last  six 
months,  the  information  would  be  more  than 
gladly  received  by  us. 

Let's  get  away  from  all  this  bunk  stuff  and  think 
for  ourselves  and  put  your  money  in  a  real  live 
proposition  such  as  the . 

After  you  invest  your  money  in  our  business, 
do  not  fail  to  submit  our  proposition  to  some  of 
your  friends,  so  as  to  put  this  proposition  over 
the  top  just  as  soon  as  possible. 

May  this  letter  act  on  you  and  try  to  improve 
your  thought  on  investing  your  money  with  us,  for 
we  stand  as  true  and  honest  as  we  can  in  order  to 
make  money  for  our  clients. 

Trusting  that  you  will  mail  your  check  or  money 
order  to  us  at  your  very  earliest  convenience  while 
the  security  is  still  selling  at  par,  $10  per  share, 
or  a  letter  from  you  stating  your  reason  for  not 
doing  so,  we  are,  respectfully  yours,  etc. 

IN  dedicating  her  autobiography  to  her  hus 
band,  Mrs.  Asquith  quotes  Epictetus :  "Have 
you  not  received  powers,  to  the  limit  of  which 
you  will  bear  all  that  befalls?  Have  you  not  re 
ceived  magnanimity?  Have  you  not  received 
courage?  Have  you  not  received  endurance?" 
Mr.  Christopher  Morley  thinks  the  gentleman 
needs  them,  but  we  are  not  so  sure.  It  is  said 
that  when  Margot  mentioned  to  him  the  large  sum 


she  was  to  receive  for  the  book,  Mr.  Asquith  re 
marked,  "I  hope,  my  dear,  that  it  isn't  worth  it." 

As  many  know,  Mr.  Humphry  Ward  is  a  per 
son  of  importance  in  his  line.  An  American 
couple  in  London  invited  him  to  dine  with  them  at 
their  hotel,  and  concluded  the  invitation  with  the 
line,  "If  there  is  a  Mrs.  Ward,  we  should  like  to 
have  her  come,  too." 

IN  the  Review  of  Reviews,  Mr.  Herbert  Wade 
entitles  his  interview  with  Prof.  Michelson, 
"Measuring  the  Suns  of  the  Solar  System."  Won 
der  how  he  explained  it  to  the  Prof? 

"SHE  left  a  note  saying  she  would  do  the  next 
worst  thing  to  suicide.  .  .  .  She  went  to  Cleve 
land  but  decided  to  return." 

Try  South  Bend. 

"HE  decided  that  life  was  not  worth  living 
after  that,  so  he  came  to  South  Bend." — South 
Bend  Triliune. 

Stet! 

WHY  THE  DOG  LEFT  TOWN. 

[From  the  Newton,  la.,  News,  Dec.  2.] 

Warning — A  resident  of  North  Newton  went 
home  from  work  Saturday  night  and  as  he  went 
in  the  front  door  a  man  went  out  the  back  door. 
[232] 


This  party  had  better  leave  town,   for  I  know 
who  he  is  and  am  after  him.    W.  H.  Miller. 

[From  the  same  paper,  Dec.  5.] 

I  have  since  discovered  that  it  was  a  neighbor's 
dog  that  bounded  out  of  the  back  door  as  I  came 
in  the  front  door  the  other  night.  My  wife  had 
gone  to  a  neighbor's  and  left  the  back  door  ajar, 
hence  a  big  dog  had  no  trouble  getting  in. 

W.  H.  Miller. 

"  'I  DON'T  see  why  we  go  to  England  for  nin 
compoops  when  we  have  men  like  Prof.  Grum- 
mann  here  at  home,'  remarked  Fred  L.  Haller." 
— Omaha  Bee. 

We  trust  Mr.  Haller  called  up  the  Professor 
and  explained  what  he  meant. 

THE  PASSIONATE  PURE  FOOD 
EXPERT  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

Come  live  with  me,  my  own  pure  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
In  passion  unadulterated 
And  bliss  that  isn't  benzoated. 

Love's  purest  formula  we'll  spell: 
Our  joys  will  never  fail  to  jell. 
The  honeyed  kisses  we  imprint 
Will  show  of  glucose  not  a  hint. 

[233] 


Your  Wiley  will  your  food  prepare, 
And  cook  a  meal  to  curl  your  hair; 
And  every  morning  you  shall  have  a 
Rare  cup  of  genuine  Mocha-Java. 

And  you  shall  have  a  buckwheat  cake 
Better  than  mother  used  to  make, 
And  sirup  from  the  maple  wood — 
Not  a  vile  sorghum  "just  as  good." 

The  eggs,  the  bacon,  and  the  jam 
Shall  be  as  pure  as  Mary's  lamb; 
And  nothing  sans  a  pure-food  label 
Shall  grace  your  matutinal  table. 

Oh,  hearken  to  your  Harvey's  suit, 
And  'ware  the  phony  substitute. 
If  pure  delights  your  mind  may  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

PROF.  BROWN  of  Carlton  College  complains 
that  college  faculties  are  concerned  with  the  men 
tal  slacker  and  the  laggard,  that  they  have  geared 
their  machinery  to  the  sluggard's  pace.  True 
enough,  but  not  only  true  of  educational  institu 
tions.  In  a  democracy  everything  is  geared  to 
the  pace  of  the  weak. 

"As  for  authors,"  sighs  Shan  Bullock,  "their 
case  is  fairly  hopeless.  But  I  recognize  that  in 

[234] 


the  new  democracy  even  average  intellect  has  no 
place  at  present.  The  new  democracy  is  on  trial. 
Until  it  has  proven  definitely  whether  it  sides  with 
cinemas  or  ideals,  there  is  not  even  a  living  for 
men  who  once  held  an  honored  place  in  the  scheme 
of  things.  That  is  a  dark  saying,  but  I  think  it 
is  true." 

WE  thought  the  doubtful  honor  was  possessed 
by  the  United  States,  but  M.  Cambon  declares 
that  there  is  no  other  country  where  people  take  so 
little  interest  in  foreign  politics  as  they  do  in 
France. 

A  NERVY  Frenchman,  M.  Bourgeois,  has  trans 
lated  "The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World."  You 
can  imagine  with  what  success.  "God  help  me, 
where'll  I  hide  myself  away  and  my  long  neck 
naked  to  the  world?"  becomes  "Dieu  m'aide,  ou 
vais-je  me  cacher  et  mon  long  cou  tout  nu?" 

THE  President  of  the  Chicago  Chapter  of  the 
Wild  Flower  Preservation  Society  wrote  to  the 
Department  of  Agriculture  for  a  certain  Bulletin 
on  Forestry  and  another  one  on  Mushrooms  for 
the  book  table  at  their  Exhibition  in  the  Art  Insti 
tute.  In  due  time  arrived  250  copies  of  "How  to 
make  unfermented  grape  juice"  and  250  copies  of 
"Hog  Cholera."  Anybody  want  them? 

[235] 


OH,  DON'T  YOU  REMEMBER  SWEET  MARY, 
BEN  BOLT? 

"What  has  become  of  Mary  MacLane?"  asks 
a  reader.  We  don't  know,  at  this  moment,  but 
we  remember — what  is  more  important —  a  jingle 
by  the  late  lamented  Roz  Field: 

"She  dwelt  beside  the  untrodden  ways, 

Among  the  hills  of  Butte, 
A  maid  whom  no  one  cared  to  love, 

And  no  one  dared  to  shoot." 

THE  Montmartre  crowd  had  a  ticket  in  the 
Paris  municipal  election.  The  design  on  the  carte 
d'electeur  was  a  windmill,  with  the  legend  below, 
uBien  vivre  et  ne  rien  faire."  This  would  do 
nicely  for  our  city  hall  push. 

Is  there  another  person  in  this  wicked  world 
quite  so  virtuous  as  a  chief  of  police  on  the  day 
that  he  takes  office? 


INDIFFERENCE. 

Said  B.  L.  T.  to  F.  P.  A., 

"How  shall  I  end  the  Line  to-day?" 

"It's  immaterial  to  me," 

Said  F.  P.  A.  to  B.  L.  T.  M.  L.  H. 

LET  it,  then,  go  double. 


[236] 


Mr.  Dubbe's  Program  Study  Class. 

(ACCOMPANYING  THE  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  CONCERTS.) 

Reported  by  Miss  Poeta  Pants. 
I. THE    NEAPOLITAN    SIXTH. 

Mr.  Criticus  Flub-Dubbe's  program  study  class 
began  the  season  yesterday  afternoon  with  every 
member  present  and  keenly  attentive.  After  a 
preparatory  sketch  of  old  Italian  music,  Mr. 
Dubbe  told  us  about  the  Neapolitan  Sixth,  which, 
he  said,  had  exercised  so  strong  an  influence  on 
music  that,  if  Naples  had  never  done  anything 
else,  this  alone  would  have  insured  to  the  city 
fame  in  history. 

'The  Neapolitan  Sixth,"  said  Mr.  Dubbe,  "is 
so  called  because  the  composers  of  the  Neapolitan 
school  of  opera  were  the  first  to  introduce  it 
freely.  D.  and  A.  Scarlatti  were  at  the  head  of 
the  school  and  were  well-known  musicians.  Bach, 
who  was  not  so  well  known,  also  used  this  sixth." 

"Which  used  it  first?"  asked  Mrs.  Givu  A. 
Payne. 

"Bach,  of  course,"  replied  Mr.  Dubbe.  "Bach 
used  everything  first." 

"Dear  old  Bach!"  exclaimed  Miss  Georgiana 
Gush. 

"The  Neapolitan  Sixth,"  continued  Mr.  Dubbe, 
"is  usually  found  in  the  first  inversion;  hence  the 
[237] 


name,  the  sixth  indicating  the  first  inversion  of 
the  chord." 

"How  clever!"  said  Mrs.  Gottem-Allbeat. 

"It  is  an  altered  chord,  the  altered  tone  being 
the  super-tonic.  The  real  character  of  the  chord 
is  submediant  of  the  subdominant  key;  that  is,  it  is 
a  major  chord,  and  the  use  of  such  a  major  chord 
in  the  solemn  minor  tonalities  is  indicative  of  the 
superficiality  of  the  Italian  school — a  desire  for  a 
change  from  the  strict  polyphonic  music  of  the 
times.  Even  the  stern  Bach  was  influenced." 

"The  Italians  are  so  frivolous,"  said  Mrs. 
Boru-Stiffe. 

"A  reign  of  frivolity  ensued,"  went  on  Mr. 
Dubbe.  "Not  only  was  Italian  music  influenced 
by  this  sixth,  but  Italian  art,  architecture,  sculp 
ture,  even  material  products.  Take,  for  example, 
Neapolitan  ice-cream.  Observe  the  influence  of 
the  sixth.  The  cream  is  made  in  three  color  tones 
— the  vanilla  being  the  subdominant,  as  the  chord 
is  of  subdominant  character;  the  strawberry  being 
the  submediant,  and  the  restful  green  the  lowered 
supertonic  or  altered  tone." 

"What  is  the  pineapple  ice?"  asked  Miss  Gay 
Votte. 

"The  pineapple  ice  is  the  twelfth  overtone,"  re 
plied  Mr.  Dubbe. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  that  Mr. 
[238] 


Dubbe  doesn't  know,"  whispered  Mrs.  Fuller- 
Prunes  to  me  with  a  smile. 

I  should  say  there  wasn't! 

After  the  lecture  we  had  a  lovely  hand-made 
luncheon.  Miss  Ellenborough  presided  at  the 
doughnuts  and  Mrs.  G.  Clef  poured.  It  was  such 
a  helpful  hour. 

II. 

"You  remember,"  said  Mr.  Dubbe,  uthat  Herr 
Weidig,  in  his  lecture  on  the  wood  winds,  gave 
a  double  bassoon  illustration  from  Brahms' 
'Chorale  of  St.  Anthony,'  which  you  are  to  hear 
to-day.  But  Herr  Weidig  neglected  to  mention 
the  most  interesting  point  in  the  illustration — 
that  the  abysmal-toned  double  bassoon  calls  atten 
tion  to  the  devil-possessed  swine,  St.  Anthony 
being  the  patron  saint  of  swine-herds.  I  want 
you  to  listen  carefully  to  this  swine  motive.  It 
is  really  extraordinary."  Mr.  Dubbe  wrote  the 
motive  on  the  blackboard  and  then  played  it  on 
his  double  bassoon,  which,  he  said,  is  one  of  the 
very  few  in  this  country. 

"The  bassoon,"  said  Mr.  Dubbe,  "was  Bee 
thoven's  favorite  instrument.  I  go  further  than 
Beethoven  in  preferring  the  double  bassoon. 
Among  my  unpublished  manuscripts  are  several 
compositions  for  this  instrument,  and  my  concerto 
for  two  double  bassoons  is  now  in  the  hands  of 
a  Berlin  publisher. 

[239] 


"But  to  recur  to  the  Brahms  chorale.  You 
should  know  that  it  makes  the  second  best  varia 
tions  in  existence.  The  best  are  in  the  Heroic 
Symphony.  The  third  best  are  Dvorak's  in  C 
major." 

"C.  Major — that's  the  man  who  wrote  'Dor 
othy  Vernon,'  "  giggled  Miss  Vera  Cilly. 

"I  am  not  discussing  ragtime  variations,"  said 
Mr.  Dubbe,  severely. 

"Not  knocking  anybody,"  whispered  Miss  Gay 
Vottc. 

"Another  interesting  point  in  connection  with 
this  week's  program,"  resumed  Mr.  Dubbe,  "is 
the  river  motive  in  Smetana's  symphonic  poem, 
'The  Moldau.'  Three  flutes  represent  (loosely 
speaking;  for,  as  I  have  often  told  you,  music  can 
not  represent  anything)  the  rippling  of  the  Mol 
dau,  a  tributary  of  the  Danube.  If  the  composer 
had  had  a  larger  river  in  mind  he  would  have 
used  nine  flutes.  If  this  composition  of  Smetana's 
seems  rather  unmusical,  allowance  must  be  made 
for  him,  as  the  poor  man  was  deaf  and  couldn't 
hear  how  bad  his  own  music  was." 

"Wasn't  Beethoven  deaf?"  asked  Miss  Sara 
Band. 

"Only  his  physical  ears  were  affected,"  replied 
Mr.  Dubbe.  "Smetana's  soul  ears  were  also 
deaf." 

At  the  close  of  the  lecture  Miss  Ellenborough 
[240] 


gave  us  a  surprise  in  the  way  of  raised  doughnuts 
made  in  the  form  of  a  G  clef.  Mrs.  Gottem-All- 
beat  poured. 

III. 

There  was  an  ominous  flash  in  Dr.  Dubbe's  eye 
when  he  arose  to  address  the  class.  uWe  have 
this  week,"  he  began,  ua  program  barbarous 
enough  to  suit  the  lovers  of  ultra-modern  music. 
There  is  Saint-Saens'  overture,  'Les  Barbares,'  to 
begin  with.  This  is  as  barbaric  as  a  Frenchman 
can  get,  and  is  interesting  chiefly  as  a  study  of  how 
not  to  use  the  trumpets.  But  for  sheer  barbarity 
commend  me  to  Hausegger's  'Barbarossa.'  Here 
we  find  the  apotheosis  of  modern  exaggeration. 
Hausegger  strove  to  make  up  for  inimportant 
themes  by  a  profuse  use  of  instruments.  Only  one 
theme,  which  occurs  in  the  third  movement,  is  of 
any  account,  and  that  is  an  imitation  of  an  old 
German  chorale.  In  this  most  monotonously 
muted  of  tone-poems  the  composer  forgot  to  mute 
one  instrument — his  pen." 

uMy !  but  Dr.  Dubbe  is  knocking  to-day,"  whis 
pered  Miss  Sara  Band. 

"The  thing  is  in  C  major  and  opens  with  a  C 
major  chord,"  continued  Dr.  Dubbe.  "That  is 
the  end  of  the  C  major;  it  never  returns  to  that 
key.  This  is  modern  music.  Take  the  third  move 
ment.  It  opens  with  a  screeching  barbershop 


chord.  A  little  later  ensues  a  prize  fight  between 
two  themes,  which  continues  until  one  of  them  is 
knocked  out.  In  this  edifying  composition,  also, 
snare  drum  sticks  are  used  on  the  kettle  drums. 
More  modern  music.  Bah!" 

I  have  never  seen  Dr.  Dubbe  so  irritated. 

"Let  us  turn  to  something  more  cheerful,"  re 
sumed  Dr.  Dubbe;  and  seating  himself  at  the 
piano  he  played  the  Schubert  C  minor  im 
promptu.  uOn  the  second  page,"  he  said,  "where 
the  key  becomes  A  flat  major,  occurs  a  harmony 
which  looks  and  sounds  like  a  foreign  chord. 
Treated  harmonically  it  is  a  second  dominant  for 
mation,  and  should  read  C  flat,  D  natural,  A  flat, 
diminished  seventh  of  the  key  of  the  dominant. 
Schubert  does  not,  however,  use  it  harmonically, 
otherwise  the  B  natural  would  read  C  flat.  These 
notes  are  enharmonic  because,  though  different, 
they  sound  the  same." 

"How  clear!"  exclaimed  Miss  Gay  Votte. 

"But  Schubert,  instead  of  progressing  harmoni 
cally,  goes  directly  back  into  the  tonic  of  A  flat 
major." 

"How  careless  of  him!"  said  Mrs.  Givu  A. 
Payne. 

"Schubert  uses  it  in  its  natural  position.  If  the 
enharmonic  C  flat  were  used  the  chord  would  then 
be  in  its  third  inversion.  Each  diminished  seventh 
harmony  may  resolve  in  sixteen  different  ways." 

[242] 


"Mercy!"  murmured  Mrs.  Fuller-Prunes. 
"How  much  there  is  to  know." 

Dr.  Dubbe  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow  as 
if  weaned.  "I  shall  never  cease  to  regret,"  he 
said,  "that  Schubert  did  not  write  C  flat.  It  would 
have  been  so  much  clearer." 

After  the  lecture  Miss  Ellenborough  gave  us 
another  surprise — doughnuts  made  in  the  shape 
of  flats.  Dr.  Dubbe  ate  five,  saying  that  D  flat 
major  was  his  favorite  key. 

I  rode  down  in  the  elevator  with  him  and  he 
repeated  his  remark  that  Schubert  had  unneces 
sarily  bemuddled  the  chord. 

"I  am  sure  you  made  it  very  plain,"  I  said.  "We 
all  understand  it  now." 

"Do  you,  indeed?"  he  replied.  "That's  more 
than  I  do." 

Of  course  he  was  jesting.  He  understands 
everything. 

IV. 

Dr.  Dubbe  was  in  his  element  yesterday.  The 
trinity  of  B's — Bach,  Beethoven,  and  Brahms — 
or,  as  Dr.  Dubbe  put  it,  the  "trinity  of  logicians," 
was  much  to  his  taste :  a  truly  Gothic  program. 

"But  what  a  contrast  is  the  second  half,"  said 

Dr.  Dubbe.     "In  the  first  we  have  the  Kings  of 

absolute  music.     In  his  youth  Beethoven  strayed 

from  the  path  (for  even  he  must  sow  his  musical 

[243] 


wild  oats),  but  in  his  maturer  years  he  produced 
no  music  that  was  not  absolute.  But  in  the  second 
half  we  have  Berlioz  and  program  music." 

"I  thought  program  music  was  music  suitable 
for  programs,"  said  Mrs.  Givu  A.  Payne. 

"Berlioz,"  continued  Dr.  Dubbe,  "instituted 
the  'musical  reform'  in  Germany — the  new  Ger 
man  school  of  Liszt  and  Wagner.  Berlioz's 
music  is  all  on  the  surface,  while  Brahms'  music 
sounds  the  depths.  He  uses  the  contra-bassoon 
in  about  all  of  his  orchestral  compositions  (you 
will  hear  it  to-day),  and  most  of  his  piano  works 
take  the  last  A  on  the  piano.  If  his  bass  seems 
at  times  muddy  it  is  because  he  goes  so  deep  that 
he  stirs  up  the  bottom." 

"How  clear!"  exclaimed  Miss  Gay  Votte. 

"Take  measure  sixty-five  in  Berlioz's  'Dance 
of  the  Sylphs,'  "  said  Dr.  Dubbe.  "The  spirits 
hover  over  Faust,  who  has  fallen  asleep.  The 
'cellos  are  sawing  away  drowsily  on  their  pedal 
point  D  (probably  in  sympathy  with  Faust),  and 
what  sounds  like  Herr  Thomas  tuning  the  or 
chestra  is  the  lone  A  of  the  fifth.  The  absent 
third  represents  the  sleep  of  Faust.  This  is  a 
trick  common  to  the  new  school.  Wagner  uses 
it  in  'Siegfried,'  in  the  close  of  the  Tarnhelm  mo 
tive,  to  illustrate  the  vanishing  properties  of  the 
cap.  In  measure  fifty-seven  of  the  Ballet  you  will 
find  a  chord  of  the  augmented  five-six,  a  harmony 
[244] 


built  on  the  first  inversion  of  the  diminished 
seventh  of  the  key  of  the  dominant,  with  lowered 
bass  tone,  and  which  in  this  instance  resolves  into 
the  dominant  triad.  Others  claim  that  this  har 
mony  is  a  dominant  ninth  with  root  omitted  and 
lowered  fifth." 

"It  has  always  seemed  so  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Fuller-Prunes.  But  I  don't  believe  she  knows  a 
thing  about  it. 

"I  think  it's  all  awfully  cute,"  said  Miss 
Georgiana  Gush. 

"The  harmony,"  resumed  Dr.  Dubbe,  frown 
ing,  "really  sounds  like  a  dominant  seventh,  and 
may  be  changed  enharmonically  into  a  dominant 
seventh  and  resolve  into  the  Neapolitan  sixth. 
This  is  all  clear  to  you,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  we  all  replied. 

Dr.  Dubbe  then  analyzed  and  played  for  us 
Brahms'  First  Symphony,  after  which  Miss  El- 
lenborough  served  doughnuts  made  in  the  shape 
of  a  Gothic  B.  We  all  had  to  eat  them — one  for 
Bach,  one  for  Beethoven,  and  one  for  Brahms. 

v. 

Dr.  Dubbe  did  not  appear  enthusiastic  over 
this  week's  program.  I  guess  because  there  was 
no  Bach  or  Brahms  on  it.  But  we  enjoyed  his 
lecture  just  the  same. 

"Raff  was   the   Raphael   of  music,"    said  Dr. 

[245] 


Dubbe.  "He  was  handicapped  by  a  superabun 
dance  of  ideas,  but,  unlike  Raphael,  he  did  not 
constantly  repeat  himself.  This  week  we  will  have 
a  look  at  his  Fifth  Symphony,  entitled  'Lenore.'  ' 

uOh !"  exclaimed  Miss  Georgiana  Gush,  "that's 
the  one  the  hero  of  'The  First  Violin'  was  always 
whistling." 

"As  you  all  know,"  said  Dr.  Dubbe,  "this  sym 
phony  is  based  on  Burger's  well-known  ballad  of 
'Lenore,'  but  as  only  the  last  movement  is  con 
cerned  with  the  actual  ballad  I  will  confine  my 
remarks  mainly  to  that.  I  wish,  however,  to  call 
your  attention  to  a  curious  harmony  in  the  first 
movement.  Upon  the  return  of  the  first  theme 
the  trombones  break  in  upon  a  dominant  B  major 
harmony  with  what  is  apparently  a  dominant  C 
major  harmony,  D,  F,  and  B.  But  the  chords  are 
actually  enharmonic  of  D,  E  sharp,  and  B.  This 
is  a  dominant  harmony  in  F  sharp.  Listen  for 
these  trombone  chords,  and  pay  special  attention 
to  the  E  sharp — a  tone  that  is  extremely  char 
acteristic  of  Raff." 

"I  think  I  have  read  somewhere,"  said  Mrs. 
Givu  A.  Payne,  "that  Raff  was  exceedingly  fond 
of  E  sharp." 

"He  was,"  said  Dr.  Dubbe.  "He  often  said  he 
didn't  see  how  he  could  get  along  without  it.  But 
to  resume: 

"The  fourth  movement  opens  with  Lenore's 

[246] 


lamentation  over  her  absent  lover  and  her  quarrel 
with  her  mother — the  oboe  being  the  girl  and 
the  bassoon  her  parent.  Lenore  foolishly  curses 
her  fate  (tympani  and  triangle),  and  from  that 
moment  is  lost.  There  is  a  knock  at  the  door  and 
her  dead  lover  appears  with  a  horse  and  suggests 
something  in  the  nature  of  an  elopement.  Not 
knowing  he  is  dead,  Lenore  acquiesces,  and  away 
they  go  (trumpets,  flutes  and  clarinets). 

"  'T  is  a  wild  and  fearful  night.  Rack  scuds 
across  the  moon's  wan  face  (violas  and  second 
violins) .  Hanged  men  rattle  in  their  chains  upon 
the  wayside  gibbets  (triangle  and  piccolo).  But 
on,  on,  on  go  the  lovers,  one  dead  and  the  other 
nearly  so. 

"At  last  they  reach  the  grave  in  the  church 
yard,  and  death  claims  the  lost  Lenore  ('cellos 
and  bass  viols  pizzicato).  For  a  conclusion  there 
is  a  coda  founded  on  the  line  in  the  ballad,  'Gott 
sei  der  Seele  gnadig.'  It  is  very  sad." 

Dr.  Dubbe  seemed  much  affected  by  the  sad 
tale,  and  many  of  us  had  to  wipe  tears  away.  But 
Miss  Ellenborough  came  to  our  rescue  with  some 
lovely  doughnuts  made  in  the  shape  of  a  true 
lovers'  knot.  These,  with  the  tea,  quite  restored 
us. 

VI. 

There  really  wasn't  any  study  class  this  week — 
that  is,  Dr.  Dubbe  did  not  appear.     While  the 
[247] 


class  waited  for  him  and  wondered  if  he  were  ill 
a  messenger  brought  me  the  following  note : 

"MY  DEAR  POETA:  Kindly  inform  the  class 
that  there  will  be  no  lecture  this  week.  I  cannot 
stand  for  such  a  trivial  program  as  Herr  Thomas 
has  prepared.  C.  F.-D." 

uHe  might  have  told  us  sooner,"  said  Miss 
Georgiana  Gush. 

"Why,  yes;  he  knew  last  week  what  the  next 
program  would  be,"  said  Mrs.  Faran-Dole. 

"The  eccentricity  of  genius,  my  dear,"  re* 
marked  Mrs.  Gottem-Allbeat.  "Genius  is  not  tied 
down  by  rules  of  conduct  of  any  sort." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Givu  A.  Payne,  "I  don't 
blame  him  for  not  wanting  to  analyze  this  week's 
program.  There  isn't  a  bit  of  Bach  or  Brahms 
on  it." 

"Ladies,"  said  Miss  Ellenborough,  coming  for 
ward  with  a  gentleman  who  had  just  arrived,  "let 
me  introduce  Mr.  Booth  Tarkington,  of  Indiana. 
Mr.  Tarkington  came  up  to  attend  the  lecture, 
but  as  Dr.  Dubbe  will  not  be  here  Mr.  Tarking 
ton  has  kindly  consented  to  give  a  doughnut  re 
cital,  so  to  speak." 

"Oh,  how  lovely!"  we  all  exclaimed. 

"Mr.  Tarkington,"  added  Miss  Ellenborough, 
"is  well  known  as  the  author  of  the  Beaucaire 
doughnut,  the  pride  of  Indiana  doughnutdom." 

[248] 


Saying  which  Miss  Ellenborough  removed  the 
screen  that  conceals  her  work  table  and  Mr.  Tark- 
ington,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  produced  a 
batch  of  Beaucaires.  They  were  really  excellent, 
and  we  didn't  leave  a  single  one.  Mr.  Everham 
Chumpleigh  Keats  poured. 

After  tea  we  all  adjourned  to  the  concert, 
which  we  enjoyed  immensely,  in  spite  of  the  ab 
sence  of  Bach  and  Brahms.  Not  knocking  Dr. 
Dubbe. 


[2491 


A  LINE-O'-TYPE  OR  TWO 


Inveniat,   quod  quisque  velit;  non   omnibus   unum 
est,  Quod  placet;  hie  spinas  colligit,  ille  rosas. 

— Petronius. 


THE  PASSING  OF  SUMMER. 


is  gone  with  its  roses, 
Summer  is  gone  with  its  wine; 
Likewise  a  lot  of  dam  choses 
Not  so  ideal  and  benign. 

King  Sol  is  visiting  Virgo, 

On  his  Zodiacal  way. 
9  Morrow's  the  twenty-third!    Ergo, 

Summer  will  vanish  to-day. 

SUMMER  in  town  is  a  synonym  for  dullness. 
The  theaters  offer  nothing  of  importance;  only 
trivialities  are  to  be  found  on  "the  trestles.  "  Mu 
sical  directors  appeal  only  to  the  ears  —  chiefly  the 
long  ears  mentioned  by  Mozart.  Bookstores  of 
fer  "best  sellers,"  "the  latest  fiction,"  and  "books 
worth  reading"  on  the  same  counter;  and  the 
magazines  become  even  less  consequential.  Art  in 
all  its  manifestations  matches  our  garments  for 
thinness  and  lightness. 

During  the  canicular  period  intellectual  activity 


is  at  a  stand,  and  we  should  be  grateful  for  the 
accident  which  tilted  earth's  axis  at  its  present 
angle ;  for  when  the  leaves  begin  to  fly  before  the 
"breath  of  Autumn's  being"  we  plunge  into  the 
new  season  with  a  cleared  mentality  and  a  great 
appetite  for  things  both  new  and  old. 

A  MAN  asks  the  Legal  Friend  of  the  People, 
"Will  you  kindly  publish  whether  or  not  it  is  il 
legal  for  second  cousins  to  marry  in  the  state  of 
Illinois?"  and  the  Friend  replies,  "No."  Aw,  go 
on  and  publish  it.  There's  no  harm  in  telling  him. 

WHYNOTT? 

[From  the  Boston  Globe.] 

From  this  date,  Sept.  25,  1920,  I -will  not  be 
responsible  for  any  bill  contracted  by  my  wife, 
Mrs.  Bernardine  Whynott.  G.  Whynott. 

IN  all  the  world  the  two  most  fragile  things  are 
a  lover's  vows  and  the  gut  in  a  tennis  racket. 
Neither  is  guaranteed  to  last  an  hour. 

IT  would  help  along  the  economic  readjust 
ment,  suggests  Dean  Johnson,  of  New  York  Uni 
versity's  school  of  commerce,  if  we  all  set  fire  to 
our  Liberty  Bonds.  We  can't  go  along  with  the 
Dean  so  far,  but  we  have  a  hundred  shares  of 
copper  stock  that  we  will  contribute  to  a  com 
munity  bonfire. 

[252] 


THE  height  of  patriotism,  confides  P.  H.  T., 
is  represented  by  Mr.  Aleshire,  president  of  the 
Chicago  Board  of  Underwriters,  who,  billed  to 
deliver  a  patriotic  address  in  an  Evanston  theater, 
paid  his  way  into  the  theater  to  hear  himself  talk. 

IT  MUST  BE  ABOUT  TIME. 

Sir:  The  Federal  Reserve  bank  at  New  Or 
leans  has  received  a  letter  from  a  patriot  who 
wants  to  know  where  and  when  he  shall  pay  the 
interest  on  his  Liberty  bond.  ROCKY. 

"!N  fact,  I've  finished — would  you  say  a  son 
net?" — concludes  H.  G.  H.,  to  whom  we  recom 
mend  the  remark  of  James  Stephens:  "Nobody 
is  interested  in  the  making  of  sonnets,  not  even 
poets." 

REFERRING  to  the  persons  who  are  given  to  the 
making  of  sonnets,  Norman  Douglas  wrote :  "I 
have  a  sneaking  fondness  for  some  of  the  worst  of 
these  bards.  .  .  .  And  it  is  by  no  means  a  despi 
cable  class  of  folks  who  perpetrate  such  stuff;  the 
third  rate  sonneteer,  a  priori,  is  a  gentleman,  and 
this  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  some  of  our  crude 
fiction  writers  who  have  never  yielded  themselves 
to  the  chastening  discipline  of  verse  composition, 
nor  warmed  their  hearts,  for  a  single  instant,  at 
the  altar  of  some  generous  ideal." 
[253] 


THE  trouble  with  minor  poets  is  well  set  forth 
by  Conrad  Aiken  in  The  Dial,  who  refers  to  the 
conclusions  of  M.  Nicolas  Kostyleff  after  a  tenta 
tive  study  of  the  mechanism  of  poetic  inspiration: 
uAn  important  part  in  poetic  creation,  he  main 
tains,  is  an  automatic  verbal  discharge,  along 
chains  of  association,  set  in  motion  by  a  chance 


occurrence." 


POETRY. 
(Lord  Dunsany.) 

What  is  it  to  hate  poetry?  It  is  to  have  no 
little  dreams  and  fancies,  no  holy  memories  of 
golden  days,  to  be  unmoved  by  serene  midsummer 
evenings  or  dawn  over  wild  lands,  singing  or  sun 
shine,  little  tales  told  by  the  fire  a  long  while  since, 
glow-worms  and  briar  rose;  for  of  all  these  things 
and  more  is  poetry  made.  It  is  to  be  cut  off  for 
ever  from  the  fellowship  of  great  men  that  are 
gone ;  to  see  men  and  women  without  their  halos 
and  the  world  without  its  glory;  to  miss  the  mean 
ing  lurking  behind  the  common  things,  like  elves 
hiding  in  flowers;  it  is  to  beat  one's  hands  all  day 
against  the  gates  of  Fairyland  and  to  find  that 
they  are  shut  and  the  country  empty  and  its  kings 
gone  hence. 

WHY  is  it  that  in  nearly  all  decisions  of  the 
Supreme  court  the  most  interesting  opinions  are 
delivered  by  the  dissenting  justices? 

[254] 


"NEW  Jack-a-Bean  dining  room  furniture,  used 
two  months;  will  sell  cheap." — El  Paso  Herald. 

That  is  the  kind  that  Louis  Canns  has  his  apart 
ment  furnished  with. 


A  CHANGE  FROM  LATIN  ROOTS. 

[From  the  Reedsburg,  Wis.,  Free  Press.] 

Miss  Edna  White  resumed  her  school  duties 
after  a  week's  vacation  for  potato  digging. 


OUR  FAVORITE  AUTUMN  POEM. 

(By  a  New  Jersey  poetess.) 

Autumn  is  more  beautiful,  I  think, 

Than  Spring  or  Winter  are. 
For  then  trees  change  at  the  river's  brink — 

How  beautiful  they  are. 

I  love  to  see  the  different  colors  so  bright — 
That  grow  around  brooks  &  grottoes. 

Leaves  that  are  pressed  are  a  pleasant  sight 
To  make  photograph  frames  &  mottoes. 

DR.  JOHNSON  or  somebody  said  that  a  surgical 
operation  was  necessary  to  get  a  joke  into  a 
Scotchman's  head;  but  the  Glasgow  Herald,  re 
porting  the  existence  of  a  London  detective  named 
Leonard  Jolly  Death,  conjectures  that  it  was  prob- 
[255] 


ably  an  ancestor  of  his  who  was  drowned  in  the 
butt  of  Malmsey  wine. 

ONE  is  usually  mistaken  in  such  matters,  but 
we  visualize  Mr.  Imer  Pett,  general  manager  of 
the  Bingham  Mines,  in  Salt  Lake  City,  as  quite 
otherwise. 

THE  SECOND  POST. 

[Received    by    a    wholesale    grocery    house,    from    an    Italian 
customer.] 

Gentlemen :  My  wife  wants  me  to  suggest  that 
you  observe  one  of  our  Italian  customs  by  remem 
bering  her  with  a  bit  of  Christmas  cheer.  As  she 
is  the  only  wife  I  got  I  trust  you  will  help  me  keep 
her.  JOE. 

DENTAL  FLOSS. 

Sir:  D.  Seiver  is  a  dentist  on  Kedzie  avenue. 
If  I  were  a  complete  contrib,  I  might  head  this, 
"Now,  this  isn't  going  to  hurt  a  bit,"  but,  as  I 
am  not,  I  merely  proceed  to  nominate  C.  O.  Soots, 
of  North  Salem,  Ind.,  as  chief  chimney  sweep  to 
the  Academy,  and  propose  the  Rev.  Ed.  V.  Belles 
of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  of  Northville, 
Mich.,  to  ring  in  the  new  for  the  members.  As  a 
substitute  for  Mr.  D.  Seiver,  you  might  induce 
the  nominating  committee  to  accept  Dr.  J.  Byron 

Ache,  a  dentist  of  Uniontown,  Pa. 

BALLYSLOUGHGUTTERY. 

[256] 


THE  melancholy  days  have  come 
For  him  who's  naturally  glum: 
But  for  the  man  whose  liver's  right 
These  Autumn  days  are  pure  delight. 

"COMPLAINS  He  Was  Called  Sexagenarian — 
Candidate  Says  Many  Voters  Thought  It  Had 
to  Do  With  Sex."— Boston  Herald. 

Flattered,  but  unappreciative. 

LADY  GODIVA  writes  from  Loz  Onglaze: 
"Have  been  having  wonderful  weather.  Quite 
warm  yesterday,  the  first  of  December.  Riding 
around  with  just  my  fur  cape  on." 

SOME  people  hold  potatoes  for  higher  prices, 
while  others,  like  Scribner's  Sons,  hold  sets  of 
Henry  James'  novels  at  $130,  an  increase  of  $82 
over  the  original  price. 

JUST  ABOUT. 

Sir :  How  long  do  you  suppose  the  Snow  Ball 
Laundry  will  last  in  Quinter,  Kansas?  The  pro 
prietor  is  G.  W.  Burns.  P.  V.  W. 

IN  an  almanack,  which  is  printed  once  a  year, 
or  in  a  dictionary  or  encyclopedia,  which  is  re- 
published  after  ten  or  twenty  years,  you  would 
expect  to  find  fewer  errors  than  in  a  daily  news 
paper;  but  apparently  time  has  little  to  do  with 
[257] 


it.  Consulting  the  Britannica's  article  on  Ana- 
tole  France,  we  were  inexpressibly  shocked  to  find 
therein  the  atrocities,  "L'lle  des  Penguins"  and 
"Maurice  Barres." 


WE  were  looking  through  the  France  sketch 
to  see  whether  there  was  mention  of  a  story  he 
wrote  before  he  became  well  known,  entitled 
"Marguerite."  A  Paris  publisher  found  it  re 
cently  in  a  magazine  and  asked  M.  France  to 
write  a  preface  to  it,  that  it  might  be  issued  as  a 
book.  Quoth  France:  "It  would  be  an  excess 
of  literary  vanity  on  my  part  to  resurrect  the 
story.  But  my  vanity  would,  perhaps,  be  greater 
were  I  to  try  to  suppress  it." 

REFERENCE  books,  as  is  well  known,  improve 
like  wine  with  age,  and  the  efficiency  of  our  proof 
room  is  to  be  accounted  for,  in  part,  by  the  vintage 
volumes  that  line  its  library  shelf.  There  are 
sixty  of  these  rare  old  tomes,  and  five  of  them  are 
useful ;  these  being,  we  think,  first  editions.  There 
is  a  Who's  Who  of  the  last  century  that  is  still 
in  good  condition,  and  the  dictionary  of  biography 
with  which  Lippincotts  began  business.  Biblio 
philes  would,  we  believe,  enjoy  looking  over  the 
shelf. 

[258] 


JAW  JINGLES. 

If  a  Hottentot  taught  a  Hottentot  tot 

To  talk  ere  the  tot  could  totter, 
Ought  the  Hottentot  tot  be  taught  to  say  "ought," 

Or  "naught,"  or  what  ought  to  be  taught  her? 

If  to  hoot  and  to  toot  a  Hottentot  tot 

Be  taught  by  a  Hottentot  tutor, 
Ought  the  Hottentot  tutor  get  hot  if  the  tot 

Hoot  and  toot  at  the  Hottentot  tutor? 

G.  B. 

"NATURE   NEVER  DID  DECEIVE  .  .  ." 

No  sooner  had  blundering  man  accomplished 
the  ruin  of  Halifax  than  Mother  Nature  sent  a 
blizzard  with  a  foot  or  two  of  snow.  A  kindly 
dame — as  kindly  as  the  old  lady  of  Endor.  She 
has  her  gentle,  her  amorous  moods,  in  which  we 
adore  her,  and  write  ballads  to  her  beauty;  but 
we  know,  if  we  are  wise,  that  her  beauty  is  "all 
in  your  eye,"  to  speak  in  the  way  of  science,  not 
of  slang,  and  that  she  is  savage  as  a  jungle  cat. 
Like  some  women  and  much  medicine,  she  should 
be  well  shaken  before  taken,  and  always  one  must 
keep  an  eye  upon  Nature,  or  one  may  feel  her 
claws  in  one's  back.  So  we  have  reflected  on  a 
summer's  day  in  woods;  but  the  forest  seemed  not 
less  beautiful,  nor  was  our  meditation  melancholy. 

To  be  saddened  by  the  inescapable  is  a  great  mis 
take. 

[259] 


NO.  68,  COUNTING  FROM  LEFT  TO  RIGHT. 

[From  the  Goshen,  Ind.,  Democrat.] 

Albert  E.  Compton,  68,  a  former  well  known 
Elkhart  taxi  driver,  went  to  California  last  sum 
mer  and  told  his  friends  he  was  going  into  the 
movies.  A  communication  from  him  yesterday 
informed  them  of  his  appearance  in  a  mob  scene. 

MRS.  FRED  L.  OLSON  is  on  the  programme  to 
sing  vocal  selections." — Portland  Telegram. 
That's  the  trouble.    They  will  sing  them. 

OUR  young  friend  who  is  about  to  become  a 
colyumist  might  lead  off  with  the  jape  about  the 
switchman  who  asked  for  red  oil  for  his  lantern. 
Then  there  is  that  side-stitching  sign,  "Pants 
pressed,  10  cents  a  leg,  seats  free." 


COMMERCIAL  CANDOR. 

Sir:    A  tailor  in  Denver  advertises:     "If  your 
clothes  don't  fit  we  make  them."  W»  V.  R. 


HEARD,  by  R.  M.,  in  a  department  store :  Shoe- 
polish  demonstrator:  "And  if  you  haven't  al 
ready  ruined  your  shoes  with  other  cleaners  this 
will  do  the  work." 


FAREWELL! 
(By  Poeta.) 

Comet,  Comet,  shining  bright 
In  the  spaces  of  the  night, 
Every  hour  swinging  higher 
From  the  Sun  of  thy  desire; 
Astral  vagrant,  stellar  rover, 
Dipping  under,  dipping  over 
Path  of  Venus,  Earth,  and  Mars 
Till  there's  naught  beyond  but  stars; 
Cutting,  in  thy  lane  elliptic, 
Thro'  the  plane  of  the  ecliptic, 
Far  beyond  pale  Neptune's  track — 
Good-by,  Comet!     Hurry  back! 

AN  UNCOMMONLY  HAPPY  THOUGHT. 

(A.  J.  Balfour,  Letter  to  Mary  Gladstone,  1891.) 

"It  is  unfortunate,  considering  that  enthusiasm 
moves  the  world,  that  so  few  enthusiasts  can  be 
trusted  to  speak  the  truth." 

THE  SECOND  POST. 

[The  editor  of  the  Winneconne,  Wis.,  Local  to  his  flock.] 

Dear  Subscriber :  You  probably  know  that  the 
Local  editor  and  his  wife  have  been  away  from 
Winneconne  most  of  the  time  during  the  last  ten 
months.  Every  month  we  expected  to  get  back 
again.  The  suspense  was  somewhat  hard.  Dur 
ing  the  meantime  Mrs.  Flanagan,  each  week, 
[261] 


would  worry  and  talk  about  the  paper  as  much  as 
ever.  The  doctor  desired  to  have  it  off  her  mind. 
During  the  meantime  she  did  not  want  the  plant 
closed  for  even  a  short  time.  Now  it  has  been 
decided  to  take  a  holiday  vacation,  during  which 
time  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Flanagan  will  release  them 
selves  from  all  business  cares  and  build  up  in 
health.  No  doubt,  you  will  realize  the  delicate 
situation  of  the  affair,  and  bear  with  us  in  the  mat 
ter  until  the  Local  again  resumes  its  regular  pub 
lication  dates,  for  surely  both  of  us  are  very  much 
attached  to  the  paper,  the  town,  and  its  people, 
and  the  surrounding  country. 

M.  C.  FLANAGAN. 

THE  DAY  OF  "DON'TS." 

Thanksgiving  was  a  holiday  I  welcomed  when  a  boy, 
But  now  it  is  a  solemn  feast  without  a  jot  of  joy. 
It  used  to  be  a  pleasure  to  attack  the  toothsome  turkey, 
But  now  when  I  approach  the  bird  I'm  anything  but 
perky. 

A  multitude  of  dismal  "Don'ts"  impair  my  appetite; 
A  fear  of  what  may  happen  me  accompanies  each  bite. 
There  hovers  round  this  holiday  a  heavy  cloud  of  dread 
That  never  lifts  till  I  am  safe,  with  water-bag,  in  bed. 

I  used  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine,  but  that  is  bad,  I'm  told, 
So  now  I  ship  in  water — just  as  much  as  I  can  hold. 

[262] 


To  fail  to  fletcherize  my  food  were  fatal,  without  ques 
tion; 
I  never  touch  the  stuffing,  as  it  taxes  the  digestion. 

When  the  lugubrious  feast  is  done  I  hasten  from  my  chair 
To  open  all  the  windows  wide,  and  let  in  lots  of  air  ; 
And  then  I  sit  around  an  hour  and  chew  a  wad  of  gum 
Until  the  fullness  disappears  from  my  distended  turn. 

That  pleasant,  dozy  feeling  I  compel  myself  to  shake, 
For  should  I  venture  on  a  nap  I'd  never,  never  wake; 
And  if  I  sneeze  I  take  alarm  and  hasten  out  of  doors, 
To  start  a  circulation  in  my  poison-clotted  pores. 

The  fact  that  I  am  still  alive  is  due,  I'm  glad  to  say, 
To   heeding   all    the   dinner    "Don'ts"    that   went   with 

yesterday. 

It  was,  from  soup  to  raisins,  by  and  large,  and  all  in  all, 
The  solemnest  Thanksgiving  meal  that  ever  I  recall. 


A  BALANCED  TUITION. 

Sir :  The  fourth  grade  teacher  in  Roland,  la., 
is  Viola  Grindem.  Fortunately  for  the  kids  the 
high  school  principal  is  Cora  Clement.  T.  B. 

"WE  wish  the  cooperative  factories,  a  success," 
says  an  esteemed  contemporary  on  our  left.  So 
do  we,  with  this  prediction,  that  if  success  is 
achieved  it  will  be  by  the  same  methods  that  are 
employed  in  the  iniquitous  capitalistic  system. 
[263] 


ALTHOUGH  the  name  topic  bores  us  to  distinc 
tion,  as  a  young  lady  of  our  acquaintance  puts  it, 
we  should  feel  we  were  posing  if  we  neglected 
to  find  room  for  the  following: 

Sir :  Deedonk,  can  you  provide  a  chaise  longue 
in  the  Romance  language  department  of  the 
Academy  for  George  E.  Ahwee  of  Colon,  Pan 
ama  ?  RUSTY. 

WE  knew  what  was  meant,  and  yet  it  gave  us 
a  slight  start  to  read  in  a  Minnesota  paper, 
"Pickle  your  own  feet  while  they  are  cheap  and 
clean/' 

OPINION  CONCURRED  IN. 

Sir :  My  heart  with  pleasure  filled  when  I  saw 
that  Riquarius  quoted  it  as  I  always  want  to  do, 
"with  rapture  fills."  While  I  realized  it  is  the 
height  of  presumption  to  think  I  could  improve 
on  Wordsworth,  don't  you  agree  with  me  that 
rapture  is  more  expressive  than  pleasure? 

JAY  AYE. 

"Rapture"  might  be  preferred  for  another 
reason:  the  accent  falls  on  a  stronger  syllable. 
Suppose  George  Meredith  had  used  "pleasure"  in 
his  lines — 

"Lasting,  too, 

For  souls  not  lent  in  usury, 
The  rapture  of  the  forward  view." 

[264] 


Every  good  poet  has  left  lines  that  could  be 
bettered  for  another  ear.  Probably  Wordsworth 
leads  the  list. 

TRANSCENDENTAL  CALM. 

Sir:  Remember  the  story  about  Theodore 
Parker  and  Emerson?  While  they  were  walking 
in  Concord  a  Seventh  Day  Adventist  rushed  up  to 
them  and  said,  "Gentlemen,  the  world  is  coming 
to  an  end."  Parker  said,  "That  doesn't  affect 
me;  I  live  in  Boston."  Emerson  said,  "Very  well. 
I  can  get  along  without  it."  E.  H.  R. 

So  the  President  has  been  converted  to  univer 
sal  military  training — as  a  war  measure.  Better 
late  than  never,  as  Noah  remarked  to  the  Zebra, 
which  had  understood  that  passengers  arrived  in 
alphabetical  order. 

THIS  REFERS,  OF  COURSE,  TO  FRANCE. 

[From  Faguet's  "Cult  of  Incompetence."] 

Democracy  has  the  greatest  inducement  to  elect 
representatives  who  are  representative,  who,  in 
the  first  place,  resemble  it  as  closely  as  possible, 
who,  in  the  second  place,  have  no  individuality  of 
their  own,  who,  finally,  having  no  fortune  of  their 
own,  have  no  sort  of  independence.  We  deplore 
[265] 


that  democracy  surrenders  itself  to  politicians, 
but  from  its  own  point  of  view,  a  point  of  view 
which  it  cannot  avoid  taking  up,  it  is  absolutely 
right.  What  is  a  politician?  He  is  a  man  who, 
in  respect  of  his  personal  opinions,  is  a  nullity,  in 
respect  of  education  a  mediocrity;  he  shares  the 
general  sentiments  and  passions  of  the  crowds,  his 
sole  occupation  is  politics,  and  if  that  career  were 
closed  to  him  he  would  die  of  starvation.  He  is 
precisely  the  thing  of  which  democracy  has  need. 
He  will  never  be  led  away  by  his  education  to 
develop  ideas  of  his  own;  and,  having  no  ideas 
of  his  own,  he  will  not  allow  them  to  enter  into 
conflict  with  his  prejudices.  His  prejudices  will 
be,  at  first,  by  a  feeble  sort  of  conviction,  after 
ward,  by  reason  of  his  own  interest,  identical  with 
those  of  the  crowd;  and  lastly,  his  poverty  and  the 
impossibility  of  his  getting  a  living  outside  of 
politics  make  it  certain  that  he  will  never  break 
out  of  the  narrow  circle  where  his  political  em 
ployers  have  confined  him;  his  imperative  man 
date  is  the  material  necessity  which  obliges  him 
to  obey;  his  imperative  mandate  is  his  inability 
to  quarrel  with  his  bread  and  butter.  Democracy 
obviously  has  need  of  politicians,  has  need  of  noth 
ing  else  but  politicians,  and  has  need  indeed  that 
there  shall  be  in  politics  nothing  else  but  poli 
ticians. 

[266] 


AN  IOWA  ROMANCE. 

[From  the  Clinton  Herald.] 

Lost — A  large  white  torn  cat  with  gray  tail  and 
two  gray  spots  on  body.  Return  to  1306  So. 
Third  street  and  receive  reward. 

Lost — "Topsy"  black  persian  cat.  Any  one 
having  seen  her  kindly  call  231  5th  ave. 

WE  SHOULD  LIKE  TO  KNOW  WHAT 
HAPPENED. 

[From  the  Idaho  Falls  Register.] 

A  lady's  leather  handbag  left  in  my  car  while 
parked  on  Park  avenue  two  weeks  ago.  Owner 
can  have  same  by  calling  at  my  office,  proving 
the  property  and  paying  for  this  ad.  If  she  will 
explain  to  my  wife  that  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
its  being  there,  I  will  pay  for  the  ad. 

C.  G.  Keller. 

COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD. 

[From  the  Tavares,  Fla.,  Herald.] 

The  home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.  H.  Duncan  was 
the  center  of  attraction  Sunday  afternoon.  All 
the  relatives  and  a  few  special  friends  were  there 
to  celebrate  two  happy  occasions,  the  anniversary 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Duncan's  marriage  and  the  mar 
riage  of  Miss  Cora  L.  Peet,  Mrs.  Duncan's  sister, 
to  Mr.  J.  E.  Hammond,  and  the  soft  winds  of 
March  had  blown  the  planet  of  love  over  this 
beautiful  home. 

[267] 


The  composition  of  the  decorations  adhered 
with  striking  fidelity  to  nature.  The  wide  veranda 
was  completely  screened  in  by  wild  smilax  and  fra 
grant  honeysuckle  vines,  which  entwisted  them 
selves  among  the  branches  of  sweet  myrtle  and 
native  palms,  fitly  transforming  it  into  a  typical 
Arcadian  scene  beckoning  to 

"Come  unto  the  garden,  Maud; 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  muck  of  the  rose  is  blown." 

Soon  the  sound  of  music  greeted  the  impatient 
ear.  With  a  voice  full  of  individuality  of  flavor 
and  unusual  quality,  Mr.  Carl  E.  Duncan,  per 
fectly  accompanied  by  his  mother  at  the  piano 
forte,  rendered  "I  Hear  You  Calling  Me."  Then 
the  coming  of  the  bridal  couple  was  heralded  by 
the  solemn  tones  of  Mendelssohn's  wedding 
march.  Never  was  a  bride  more  beautiful; 
never 

[Well,  hardly  ever.] 


AND  HOW  CALM  THE  OCEAN  IS! 

[Correspondence  from  Florida.] 

I've  fallen  in  love  with  the  salt  water  bathing. 
It  feels  wonderfully  refreshing  here,  below  the 
equator. 

[268] 


POEMS  YOU  MAY  HAVE  MISSED. 
BETWEEN  THE  BARN  AND  THE  WOODHOUSE. 

Between  the  barn  and  the  woodhouse, 

Where  oft  old  Jersey  would  stand, 
I  remember  'twas  on  this  self-same  spot 

Where  she  kicked  Elizabeth  Ann. 

I  could  hear  the  clang  of  the  bucket, 

And  also  poor  Annie's  refrain, 
And  when  the  family  reached  her, 

She  was  writhing  and  groaning  with  pain. 

Mother  stooped  down  to  caress  her 

As  she  lay  there  stunned  on  the  ground, 

And  our  big,  simple  minded  brother 
Thought  he  should  examine  the  wound. 

Without  halt  or  hesitation, 

He  dropped  to  his  knees  in  the  dirt; 

Although  she  lay  stunned  and  bleeding, 
He  asked  her  where  she  was  hurt. 

Then  Annie,  in  a  half  sitting  posture, 

While  resting  on  mother's  arm, 
Feebly  responded  to  brother, 

"Between  the  woodhouse  and  barn." 

W.  T.  N. 

UTHE  Chicago  convention  left  the  Democratic 
party  as  the  sole  custodian  of  the  honor  of  the 
country." — Orator  Cummings. 

Some  custodian,  nous  en  informerons  I'universJ 

[269] 


To  the  inspired  compositor  and  proof  reader 
of  the  York,  Neb.,  News-Times  he  is  General 
Denuncio. 

"THE  plebicide  showed  an  overwhelming  ma 
jority  in  favor  of  King  Constantine's  return." — 
St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press. 

Very  good  word. 

WE  were  not  alone  in  financing  the  war.  An 
income  tax  payment  of  $14,000,000  was  made  in 
New  York  yesterday.  The  identity  of  the  indi 
vidual  is  not  disclosed,  but  the  painstaking  Asso 
ciated  Press  says  that  "he  is  obviously  one  of  the 
richest  men  in  the  United  States." 

"THINKING  as  One  Walks."— Doc  Evans. 

"Meaning,"  conjectures  Fenton,  "that  if  one 
is  bow-legged  one  is  likely  to  think  in  circles." 
Or  if  one  limps,  one  is  likely  to  come  to  a  lame 
conclusion.  Or  if —  Roll  your  own. 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BALDNESS. 

One  by  one  the  hairs  are  graying, 
One  by  one  they  blanch  and  fall; 

Never  stopping,  never  staying — 

W.  t.  h.  and  d.  i.  all!  W.  R. 

[270] 


A  DEAD  SHOT. 

[From  the  Mt.  Carmel,  111.,  Republican.] 

The  Mount  Carmel  Gun  club  held  its  weekly 
shoot  this  afternoon,  the  chief  feature  being  the 
demonstration  of  expert  marksmanship  by  Mr. 
Killam  of  the  Du  Pont  Powder  Co. 

IT  WOULD  PUT  'EM  ON  THE  STAGE. 

Why  does  not  some  pianist  give  us  a  really 
popular  recital  programme?  Frezzample: 

Moonlight  Sonata. 

The  Harmonious  Blacksmith. 

Mendelssohn's  Spring  Song. 

Old  Favorites: 
Recollections  of  Home. 
Silvery  Waves. 
Monastery  Bells. 
Etincelles. 

Waves  of  the  Ocean. 
Gottschalk's  Last  Hope. 

Clayton's  Grand  March. 
The  Battle  of  Prague. 
The  Awakening  of  the  Lion. 

THERE  is  an  encouraging  growth  of  musical 
understanding  and  appreciation  in  this  country. 
Even  now  you  hear  very  many  people  say,  "I  liked 
the  scherzo." 

[271] 


UHE  sat  down  in  a  vacant  chair, "  relates  a 
magazine  fictionist.  It  is,  everything  considered, 
the  safest  way.  Much  of  the  discord  in  the  world 
has  been  caused  by  gentlemen — and  ladies  as 
well — who  sat  down  in  chairs  already  occupied. 

A  KENWOOD  pastor  has  resigned  because  some 
members  of  his  flock  thought  him  too  broad.  The 
others,  we  venture,  thought  him  too  long. 

"PROF.   HOBBS  Will   Make   Globe   Trot."— 
Michigan  Daily. 
Giddap,  old  top! 


[272] 


Vacation  Travels. 

IT  IS  a  great  pleasure  to  be  free,  for  a  time, 
from  the  practice  of  expressing  opinion;  free 
to  read  the  newspapers  with  no  thought  of  com 
menting  on  the  contents;  free  to  glance  at  a  few 
hectic  headlines,  and  then  bite  into  a  book  that 
you  have  meant  to  get  to  for  a  long  time  past,  to 
read  it  slowly,  without  skipping,  to  read  over  an 
especially  well  done  page  and  to  put  the  book  aside 
and  meditate  on  the  moral  which  it  pointed,  or 
left  you  to  point.  Unless  obliged  to,  why  should 
anybody  write  when  he  can  read  instead?  One's 
own  opinions  (hastily  formed  and  lacking  even 
the  graces  of  expression)  are  of  small  account; 
certainly  they  are  of  less  account  than  Mr.  Mill's 
observations  on  Liberty,  which  I  have  put  down 
in  order  to  pen  a  few  longish  paragraphs.  (I 
would  rather  be  reading,  you  understand;  my  pen 
is  running  for  the  same  reason  some  street  cars 
run — to  hold  the  franchise.)  And  speaking  of 
Mill,  do  you  remember  the  library  catalogue 
which  contained  the  consecutive  items,  "Mill  on 
Liberty"  and  "Ditto  on  the  Floss"? 


One  can  get  through  a  good  many  books  on  a 
long  railway  journey.  My  slender  stock  was  ex 
hausted  before  I  reached  Colorado,  and  I  am 
compelled  to  re-read  until  such  time  as  I  can  lay 

[273] 


in  a  fresh  supply.  At  home  it  is  difficult  to  find 
time  to  read — that  is,  considerable  stretches  of 
time,  so  that  one  may  really  digest  the  pages  which 
he  is  leisurely  taking  in.  Fifty  years  ago  there 
were  not  many  more  books  worth  reading  than 
there  are  to-day,  but  there  was  more  time  to  as 
similate  them.  A  comparatively  few  books  thor 
oughly  assimilated  gave  us  Lincoln's  Gettysburg 
address.  Not  long  ago  my  friend  the  Librarian 
was  speaking  of  this  short  classic.  "Did  you 
ever,"  said  he,  "read  Edward  Everett's  address 
at  Gettysburg?"  "No,"  said  I,  "and  I  fear  I 
shall  never  get  to  it."  "It  is  stowed  away  among 
his  collected  orations,"  said  he.  "Not  half  bad. 
Unfortunately  for  its  fame,  Mr.  Lincoln  hap 
pened  along  with  a  few  well  chosen  remarks  which 
the  world  has  preferred  to  remember." 


Another  advantage  of  a  long  railway  journey 
is  the  opportunity  it  affords  to  give  one's  vocal 
cords  a  (usually)  well-merited  rest.  It  is  possible 
to  travel  across  the  continent  without  saying  a 
word.  A  nod  or  a  shake  of  the  head  suffices  in 
your  dealings  with  the  porter ;  and  you  learn  noth 
ing  from  questioning  him,  as  he  has  not  been  on 
that  run  before.  Also,  business  with  the  train  and 
Pullman  conductors  may  be  transacted  in  silence, 
and  there  is  no  profit  in  asking  the  latter  to  ex 
change  your  upper  berth  for  a  lower,  as  he  has 
[274] 


already  been  entreated  by  all  the  other  occupants 
of  uppers.  When  the  train  halts  you  do  not  have 
to  ask,  "What  place  is  this?" — you  may  find  out 
by  looking  at  the  large  sign  on  the  station.  Nor 
is  it  necessary  to  inquire,  uAre  we  on  time?" — 
your  watch  and  time-table  will  enlighten  you. 
You  do  not  have  to  exclaim,  when  a  fresh  loco 
motive  is  violently  attached,  "Well,  I  see  we 
got  an  engine" — there  is  always  somebody  to  say 
it  for  you.  And  you  write  your  orders  in  the 
dining  car.  There  is,  of  course,  the  chance  of 
being  accosted  in  the  club  car,  but  since  this  went 
dry  the  danger  has  been  slight.  And  conversation 
can  always  be  averted  by  absorption  in  a  book, 
or,  in  a  crisis,  by  pretending  to  be  dumb. 

Not  everybody  can  travel  three  or  four  days 
without  exchanging  words  with  a  fellow  traveler. 
Mr.  George  Moore,  for  example,  would  be  quite 
wretched.  Conversation  is  the  breath  of  his  be 
ing,  he  says  somewhere.  I  understand  that  Mr. 
Moore  has  another  book  on  press,  entitled 
"Avowals."  Avowals!  My  dear!  .  .  .  After 
the  "Confessions"  and  the  "Memoirs"  what  in 
the  world  is  there  left  for  the  man  to  avow? 


What  a  delightful  fictionist  is  Moore!     And 
never  more  delightful  than  when  he  is  writing 
fiction  under  the  appearance  of  fact.    No  one  has 
[275] 


taken  more  to  heart  the  axiom  that  the  imaginary 
is  the  only  real.  As  my  friend  the  Librarian 
observed,  the  difference  between  George  Moore 
and  Baron  Munchausen  is  that  Moore's  lies  are 
interesting. 

Travelers  must  carry  their  own  reading  matter 
under  government  ownership.  The  club  car  li 
brary  now  consists  of  time-tables,  maps,  and  pam 
phlets  setting  forth  the  never  to  be  forgotten  at 
tractions  of  the  show  places  along  the  way.  These 
are  all  written  by  the  celebrated  prose  poet  Ibid, 
and,  with  a  bottle  of  pseudo  beer  or  lemon  pop, 
help  to  make  the  club  car  as  gay  a  place  as  a  mor 
tician's  parlor  on  a  rainy  afternoon. 


The  treeless  plateau  over  which  the  train  rolls, 
hour  after  hour,  is  the  result  of  a  great  uplift.  It 
was  not  sudden ;  it  was  slow  but  sure.  This  result 
is  arid  and  plateautudinous,  in  a  manner  of  speak 
ing — not  the  best  manner.  It  makes  me  think  of 
democracy — and  prohibition.  To  this  complexion 
we  shall  come  at  last.  To  be  sure,  the  genius  of 
man  will  continue  to  cut  channels  in  the  monoto 
nous  plain;  erosion  will  relieve  the  dreary  pros 
pect  with  form  and  color,  but  it  bids  fair  to  be, 
for  the  most  part,  a  flat  and  dry  world,  from 
which  many  of  us  will  part  with  a  minimum  of 
regret.  There  will  remain  the  inextinguishable 

[276] 


desire  to  learn  what  wonders  science  will  disclose. 
Perhaps — who  knows? — they  will  discover  how 
to  ventilate  a  sleeping  car. 


At  Albuquerque  I  remarked  a  line  of  Mexicans 
basking  in  the  sun  (having,  perhaps,  finished 
jumping  on  their  mothers).  They  looked  happy 
— as  happy  as  the  Russian  peasants  used  to  be. 
Men  who  know  Russia  tell  me  that  the  peasants 
really  were  happy,  even  under  the  twin  despotisms 
of  Vodka  and  Czar.  It  was  not,  of  course,  a  re 
former's  idea  of  happiness :  a  reformer's  idea  of 
happiness  is  perpetual  attention  to  everybody's 
business  but  his  own.  People  who  are  interested 
academically  in  other  people's  happiness  usually 
succeed  in  making  everybody  unhappy.  Now,  the 
Russian's  happiness  was  a  poor  thing,  but  his  own. 
In  reality  he  was  wretched  and  oppressed,  and  his 
voice  and  bearing  should  have  expressed  his  mis 
ery  and  hopelessness,  instead  of  a  foolish  content 
and  a  silly  detachment  from  political  affairs.  But 
he  is  at  last  emancipated,  and,  as  was  said  of 
Mary's  fleecy  companion,  now  contemplate  the 
condemned  thing! 


Liberty,  equality,  international  amity,  democ 
racy,  the  kingdom  of  heaven  on  earth — All  that 
is  very  well,  yet  Candide  remarked  to  Dr.  Pan- 
[277] 


gloss  when  all  was  said  and  done,  "Let  us  culti 
vate  our  garden." 


There  are  so  many  interesting  things  along  the 
way  that  I  should,  I  suppose,  be  filling  a  notebook. 
But  why  mar  the  pleasure  of  a  journey  by  taking 
notes?  as  the  good  Sylvestre  Bonnard  inquired. 
Lovers  who  truly  love  do  not  keep  a  diary  of  their 
happiness. 

In  Phoenix,  Arizona,  distance  lends  enchant 
ment  to  the  view.  But  the  hills  are  far  away,  and 
as  I  did  not  visit  the  Southwest  to  contemplate  the 
works  of  man,  however  ingenious,  I  followed  the 
westering  sun  to  where  the  mountains  come  down 
to  the  sea.  I  do  not  fancy  the  elevated  parts  of 
New  Mexico  and  Arizona ;  and  as  there  was  no 
thought  of  pleasing  me  when  they  were  created,  I 
feel  free  to  express  a  modified  rapture  in  their 
contemplation.  I  should  have  remembered 
enough  geology  to  know  that  granite  is  not  found 
in  this  section,  except  at  the  bottom  of  the  Grand 
Canyon.  The  hills  I  like  are  made  of  old-fash 
ioned  stuff,  not  young  upstart  tufa  and  sandstone 
that  was  not  thought  of  when  the  Laurentians 
were  built.  One  really  cannot  have  much  respect 
for  a  rock  that  he  can  kick  to  pieces.  The  gay 
young  buttes  in  this  land  of  quickly  shifting  hori 
zons  are  not  without  their  charm;  they  look  well 

[278] 


in  certain  lights,  and  they  are  decidedly  better 
than  no  hills  at  all.  Although  immature,  they 
have  an  air  of  pretending  to  be  very  ancient,  to 
be  the  ruins  of  mountains.  They  are  picturesque 
and  colorful.  And  I  would  swap  a  league  of  them 
for  one  archaic  boulder  the  size  of  a  box-car,  with 
a  thick  coverlet  of  reindeer  moss. 


When  I  left  the  train  at  Pasadena  I  saw  what 
I  took  to  be  a  procession  of  the  K.  K.  K.  It 
proved  to  be  citizens  in  flu  masks.  I  was  inter 
ested,  but  not  alarmed ;  whereas  a  lady  tourist  who 
debarked  on  the  following  day  fell  in  a  swoon  and 
was  conveyed  to  the  hospital.  The  newspapers 
charged  her  disorder  to  the  masks,  but  as  she  was 
from  Chicago  I  suspect  that  her  reason  was  un 
settled  by  the  sudden  revealment  of  a  clean  city. 
And  Pasadena  is  clean — almost  immaculate.  I 
was  obliged  to  join  the  masqueraders,  and  I  found 
the  inconvenience  only  slight.  The  mask  keeps 
the  nose  warm  after  sundown,  and  is  convenient  to 
sneeze  into.  And  I  have  never  remarked  better 
looking  folks  than  the  people  of  Pasadena.  The 
so-called  human  race  has  never  appeared  to 
better  advantage.  The  women  were  especially 
charming,  and  were  all,  for  once,  equally  handi 
capped,  like  the  veiled  sex  in  the  Orient. 

[279] 


Whoever  christened  it  the  Pacific  ocean  was  the 
giver  of  innocent  pleasure  to  every  third  person 
who  has  set  eyes  on  it  since.  "There's  the  Pa 
cific  !"  you  hear  people  exclaim  to  one  another 
when  the  train  reaches  the  top  of  a  pass.  "Isn't  it 
calm!  That's  why  it  is  called  the  Pacific.  And 
it  is  pacific,  isn't  it?"  Some  such  observation  must 
have  escaped  the  stout  adventurer  in  Darien,  be 
fore  he  fell  silent  upon  his  peak. 


I  shall  say  nothing  about  the  never  to  be  suffi 
ciently  esteemed  climate  of  California,  nor  even 
allude  to  the  windjammers  of  Loz  Onglaze.  The 
last  word  concerning  those  enthusiasts  was  spoken 
by  a  San  Francisco  man  who,  addressing  the  peo 
ple  of  "Los,"  explained  how  the  city  might  over 
come  the  slight  handicap  imposed  by  its  distance 
from  the  sea.  "Lay  an  iron  pipe  to  tidewater," 
he  advised;  "and  then,  if  you  can  suck  as  hard  as 
you  can  blow,  you  will  presently  have  the  ocean 
at  your  doors."  It  would  be  difficult  to  improve 
on  that  criticism.  And  so,  instead  of  praising  the 
climate,  I  will  gladly  testify  that  it  is  easier  to 
live  in  this  part  of  the  country  than  anywhere 
east  of  the  Sierras.  And  San  Diego  impresses  me 
as  the  easiest  place  in  the  state  to  live,  the  year 
round. 

[280] 


The  mechanical  effort  of  existence  is  reduced  to 
its  minimum  in  La  Jolla,  a  suburb  of  San  Diego, 
where  I  am  opposing  a  holiday  indolence  to  pen 
these  desultory  lines.  ''There's  lots  of  good  fish 
in  the  sea"  that  beats  against  this  rockbound  but 
not  stern  coast,  and  there  is  a  fish  market  in  the 
village.  But  each  day  I  see  the  sign  in  the  window, 
"No  fish."  The  fisherman,  I  am  told,  is  "very 
independent,"  a  euphemism  for  tired,  perhaps. 
He  casts  his  hooks  and  nets  only  when  the  spirit 
moves  him,  and  is  not  impelled  to  the  sea  by  sor 
did  motives.  A  true  fisherman,  I  thought,  though 
he  never  change  his  window  sign. 


To-day's  newspapers  contain  the  protest  of  the 
governor  of  Lower  California  against  the  pro 
posed  annexing  of  his  territory  by  the  United 
States.  Senor  Cantu  may  be  a  hairless  dog  in  the 
manger;  he  may,  as  he  claims,  represent  the  seeth 
ing  patriotism  of  all  but  a  negligible  percentage  of 
the  population;  but  he  is  no  doubt  correct  in 
merely  asserting  that  the  peninsula  will  not  be  an 
nexed.  Incidentally,  he  is  on  sure  ground  when 
he  attributes  the  chaos  in  Mexican  affairs  to  "con 
flicting  political  criteria."  It  is  all  of  that.  So  far 
as  I  have  casually  discovered,  there  is  no  active 
annexation  sentiment  on  this  side  of  the  border, 
for  there  is  no  hope  of  overcoming  that  provision 
in  the  Mexican  constitution  which  makes  it  a  mat- 


ter  of  high  treason  to  encourage  a  movement  for 
the  diminution  of  Mexican  territory. 


Gov.  Cantu's  phrase,  "conflicting  political  cri 
teria,"  applies  rather  happily  to  the  doings  in 
Paris  these  days.  The  Peace  conference  and  pro 
hibition  in  the  United  States  are  perhaps  the  two 
most  prominent  topics  before  the  public,  and  they 
are  the  two  things  which  I  have  not  heard  men 
tioned  since  I  began  my  travels. 


[282] 


A  LINE-O'-TYPE  OR  TWO 


"Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be!' 


COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  AMERICA. 

SING  high  the  air  like  dry  champagne, 
The  fields  of  virgin  snow! 
(Sing  low  the  mile-hike  from  the  train, 
In  five  or  ten  below.) 

Sing  high  the  joys  the  gods  allot 

To  our  suburban  state ! 
(Sing  low  the  dinner  gone  to  pot, 

Because  the  train  is  late.) 

Sing  high  the  white-arched  woodland  way, 

Resembling  faery  halls! 
(Sing  low  the  drifts  that  stay  and  stay, 

In  which  your  motor  stalls.) 

Sing  high,  sing  low,  sing  jack  and  game, 

Sing  Winter's  spangled  gown! 
(Let  him  who  will  these  things  acclaim — 

I'm  moving  in  to  town.) 

SCRATCH    a    man    who    really    enjoys    zero 
weather,  and  you  will  find  blubber. 

[283] 


BORN  in  Sioux  City,  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Matt 
Hoss,  a  daughter.  Who'll  contribute  a  buggy? 

"FoR  SALE — 1920  Mormon  chummy." — Min 
neapolis  Journal. 

Five-passenger  at  least. 

THERE  WERE  IMMORTALS  BEFORE  JET 
WIMP. 

Sir:  In  the  Lowell  (Mass.)  Daily  Journal 
and  Courier,  dated  Feb.  4,  1853,  I  find  the  fol 
lowing:  "What's  in  a  name!  The  name  of  the 
superintendent  of  the  Cincinnati  Hospital  is 
Queer  Absalom  Death."  Thus  showing  that 
there  were  candidates  for  the  Academy  seventy 
years  ago.  CONCORD. 

SOME  sort  of  jape  or  jingle  might  be  chiseled 
from  the  fact  that  Lot  Spry  and  Ida  Smart  were 
married  t'other  day  in  Vinton,  la. 

CONTRIBUTIONS  THAT  HAVE  AMUSED  US. 

Proprietor  of  hotel  in  Keokuk,  answering  call 
from  room:  "Hello!" 

Voice:  "We  are  in  Room  30  and  now  ready 
to  come  down." 

Prop. :     "Take  the  elevator  down." 

Voice:     "Is  the  elevator  ready?" 

[Proprietor    sends    bellboy    to    Room    30    to 
escort  newly-wedded  couple  to  terra  firma.] 
[284] 


UWEDS    I04th  Veteran." — Springfield   Repub 
lican. 

The  first  hundred  veterans  are  the  hardest. 

FOR  official  announcer  in  the  Academy,  E.  K. 
proposes  James  Hollerup  of  Endeavor,  Wis. 


SHE  PREFERRED  HER  PSYCHOPATHY 
STRAIGHT. 

Sir :  At  a  party  last  night  one  of  my  sex  read 
the  recent  buffoonery,  "Heliogabalus,"  by  the 
Smart  Set  editors.  When  the  reader  reached  the 
choice  second  act  one  of  the  women  (the  bobbed 
hair  type)  refused  to  listen  to  any  more  of  the 
"salacious  rot,"  and  walked  over  to  the  bookcase, 
from  which,  after  careful  study,  she  picked  out 
Krafft-Ebing's  Psychopathia  Sexualis.  I  ask  you, 
ain't  women  funny?  PHILARDEE. 

No,  not  in  this  instance.  We  quite  sympathize 
with  the  lady.  We  much  prefer  Havelock  Ellis 
to  "Jurgen,"  for  example.  Chacun  a  son  gout. 

THIS  peculiar  and  unliterary  preference  of 
ours  may  be  due  to  the  fact  that  once  upon  a  time, 
in  a  country  job-print,  we  were  obliged  to  read  the 
proofs  of  a  great  many  medical  works,  made  up 
largely  of  "Case  i,  a  young  man  of  28,"  "Case  2, 
a  woman  of  thirty,"  etc.  These  things  were  in- 

[285] 


structive,  and  sometimes  interesting.  But  when 
"Case  i"  is  expanded  to  a  novel  of  three  or  four 
hundred  pages,  or  "Case  2"  expressed  in  the  form 
of  hectic  vers  libre,  a  feeling  of  lassitude  comes 
o'er  us  which  is  more  or  less  akin  to  pain. 

THE  COME-BACK. 

Click!     Click! 

Goes  my  typewriter, 

Transcribing  letters 

That  the  Boss  dictates  around 

His  chew 

After  he  has   discussed   the  weather, 

And  the  squeak  in  his  car, 

And  his  young  hopeful's  latest, 

And  the  L.  of  N. 

Click!     Click! 

While  he  writes  impudent 

Things 

For  the  Line 

About  the  Stenos, 

And  asks  me  how  to  spell 

The  words. 

Hark! 

To  the  death  rattle  of 

The  cuspidor 

Upset, 

As  he  departs  at  two  o'clock 

To  golf, 

While  I  type  on 

Till  five.  AGNES. 

[286] 


MR.  GOMPERS  advises  labor  to  accomplish  its 
desires  at  the  polls,  instead  of  chasing  after  the 
red  gods  of  political  theory.  This  is  excellently 
gomped,  and  will  make  as  deep  an  impression  as 
an  autumn  leaf  falling  on  a  rock. 

SINCE  the  so-called  working  classes  are  unable 
or  unwilling  to  do  so  simple  a  sum  as  dividing  the 
total  wealth  of  a  nation  by  the  number  of  its  in 
habitants;  since  they  cannot  or  will  not  under 
stand  that  if  the  profits  of  an  industry  are  ex 
ceeded  by  the  wages  paid,  the  industry  must  stop ; 
since  they  only  reason  a  posteriori  when  that  is 
well  kicked,  and  by  themselves — it  is  fortunate 
that  the  United  States  has  the  opportunity  to 
watch  the  progress  of  the  experiment  now  making 
in  England. 

NOWADAYS  the  buying  and  dispatching  of 
Christmas  gifts  is  scientifically  made.  One  merely 
selects  this  or  that  and  orders  it  sent  to  So-and  So. 
One  turns  in  to  a  book  store  a  list  of  titles  and  a 
list  of  names  and  addresses,  and  the  book  store 
does  the  rest. 

Consequently  one  misses  the  pleasant  labor 
of  tying  up  the  gift,  of  journeying  to  the  post- 
office,  to  have  it  weighed  and  stamped,  and  of 
dropping  it  through  the  slot  and  wondering 
whether  the  string  will  break,  or  whether  the 
package  will  go  astray. 

[287] 


WE  were  engaged  in  dropping  newly-minted 
double-eagles  into  the  Christmas  stockings  of  our 
contributors  when  an  auto  truck  got  mired  near 
our  chamber  window,  and  the  roar  of  it  woke  us 
up. 

JAPANESE,  Chinese,  Hindus,  and  other  Orien 
tals  are  disliked,  not  because  of  race  or  color,  but 
because  they  are  willing  to  work.  Anyone  who 
is  willing  to  work  in  these  times  is,  like  the  needy 
knife-grinder,  a  wretch  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs 
can  rouse  to  vengeance. 

WASHLADIES  get  more  money  for  less  work 
than  any  other  members  of  the  leisure  class,  with 
the  exception  of  the  persons  who  work  on  putting 
greens.  In  addition  to  their  wage,  they  get  car 
fare  and  two  or  three  meals.  Why?  Because  it 
is  not  generally  known  that  a  mere  man,  with  a 
washing  machine  and  a  bucket  of  solution,  can  do 
more  washing  in  three  hours  than  a  washlady  does 
in  three  days. 

WHAT  do  they  mean  "industrial  unrest"?  In 
dustry  never  rested  so  frequently  or  for  such  pro 
tracted  periods. 

THE  natives  of  Salvador  can  neither  read  nor 
write,  but  their  happy  days  are  numbered.  The 
Baptist  church  is  going  to  spend  three  millions  on 


their  conversion.  Their  capacity  for  resistance  is 
not  so  great  as  that  of  the  Chinese.  Do  you  re 
member  what  Henry  Ward  Beecher  said  of  the 
Chinese?  "We  have  clubbed  them,  stoned  them, 
burned  their  houses,  and  murdered  some  of  them, 
yet  they  refuse  to  be  converted.  I  do  not  know 
any  way  except  to  blow  them  up  with  nitro 
glycerine,  if  we  are  ever  to  get  them  to  heaven." 

"Do  you  not  know,"  writes  Persephone,  "that 
with  the  coming  of  all  this  water,  all  imagination 
and  adventure  have  fled  the  world?"  Just  what 
we  were  thinking  t'other  evening,  when  we  dissi 
pated  a  few  hours  with  our  good  gossip  the 
Doctor.  "I  am,"  said  he,  pouring  out  a  medi 
tative  three-fingers,  "in  favor  of  prohibition;  and 
I  believe  that  some  substitute  for  this  stuff  will  be 
found." 

We  pursued  that  lane  of  thought  a  while,  until 
it  debouched  into  a  desert.  The  Doctor  then 
took  down  the  works  of  Byron,  and  read  aloud — 
touching  the  high  spots  in  "English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers,"  "Don  Juan,"  "Childe 
Harold,"  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon"— pausing 
ever  and  anon  to  replenish  the  glasses.  It  was 
midnight  ere  the  book  was  returned  to  its  shelf. 

It  was  a  delightful  evening.  And  we  won 
dered  whether,  without  the  excellent  bourbon  and 
[289] 


the  cigars,  we  should  not  have  had  enough  of 
Byron  by  10  130. 

AN  English  publisher  binds  all  his  books  in  red 
because,  having  watched  women  choosing  books 
in  the  libraries,  he  found  that  they  looked  first  at 
the  red-bound  ones.  Does  that  coincide  with 
your  experience,  my  dear? 

OUR  interest  in  Mr.  Wells'  "Outline  of 
History"  has  been  practically  ruined  by  learning 
from  a  geologist  that  Mr.  Wells'  story  of  creation 
is  frightfully  out  of  date.  Should  he  not  have 
given  another  twenty-four  hours  to  so  large  an 
opus? 

VISITING  English  authors  have  a  delightful 
trick  of  diagramming  their  literary  allusions. 
Only  the  few  are  irritated  by  it. 

UAND  as  I  am  in  no  sense  a  lecturer  .  .  ." — 
Mr.  Chesterton. 

Seemingly  the  knowledge  of  one's  limitations 
as  a  public  entertainer  does  not  preclude  one  from 
accepting  a  fee  five  or  ten  times  larger  than  one 
would  receive  in  London.  We  are  languidly 
curieux  de  savoir  how  far  the  American  equivalent 
would  get  in  the  English  capital. 
[290] 


You  cannot  "make  Chicago  literary"  by  mov 
ing  the  magazine  market  to  that  city.  Authors 
lay  the  scenes  of  their  stories  in  New  York  rather 
than  in  Chicago,  because  readers  prefer  to  have 
the  scene  New  York,  just  as  English  readers 
prefer  London  to  Manchester  or  Liverpool.  If 
a  story  is  unusually  interesting  it  is  of  no  conse 
quence  where  the  scene  is  laid,  but  most  stories 
are  only  so-so  and  have  to  borrow  interest  from 
geography. 

THANKS  TO  MISS  MONROE'S  MAGAZINE. 

Only  a  little  while  ago 

The  pallid  poet  had  no  show — 

No  gallery  that  he  could  use 

To  hang  the  product  of  his  muse. 

But  now  his  sketches  deck  the  walls 
Of  many  hospitable   halls, 
And  juries  solemnly  debate 
The  merits  of  the  candidate. 

TRADE  CLASSICS. 

EVERY  trade  has  at  least  one  classic.  One  in 
the  newspaper  trade  concerns  the  reporter  who 
was  sent  to  do  a  wedding,  and  returned  to  say 
that  there  was  no  story,  as  the  bridegroom  failed 
to  show  up.  Will  a  few  other  trades  acquaint  us 
with  their  classics?  It  should  make  an  interest 
ing  collection. 

[291] 


Sir:  The  classic  of  the  teaching  trade:  A 
school  teacher  saw  a  man  on  the  car  whose  face 
was  vaguely  familiar.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  she 
said,  "but  aren't  you  the  father  of  two  of  my 
children?"  S.  B. 

Sir:  The  son  of  his  father  on  a  certain  oc 
casion,  when  the  paper  was  overset,  objected  to 
adding  two  pages,  but  in  a  moment  of  economical 
inspiration  agreed  to  permit  one  extra  page. 

C.  D. 

Sir:  Don't  forget  the  classic  of  dry  stories. 
"An  Irishman  and  a  Scotchman  stood  before  a 
bar — and  the  Irishman  didn't  have  any  money." 

L.  A.  H. 

To  continue,  the  Scotchman  said :  "Well,  Pat, 
what  are  we  going  to  have  to-day?  Rain  or 
snow?" 

Sir:  "If  you  can't  read,  ask  the  grocer."  But 
I  heard  it  differently.  An  Englishman  and  an 
American  read  the  sign.  The  American  laughed. 
The  Englishman  did  not  see  the  humor  of  it.  The 
American  asked  him  to  read  it  again;  whereupon 
the  Englishman  laughed  and  said:  "Oh,  yes;  the 
grocer  might  be  out."  3-STAR. 

You  may  know  the  trade  classic  about  the  ex 
change  editor.     The  new  owner  of  the  newspaper 
[292] 


asked  who  that  man  was  in  the  corner.  "The 
exchange  editor,"  he  was  informed.  "Well,  fire 
him,"  said  he.  "All  he  seems  to  do  is  sit  there 
and  read  all  day." 

DIVERS  correspondents  advise  us  that  the  trade 
classics  we  have  been  printing  are  old  stuff.  Yes; 
that  is  the  peculiar  thing  about  a  classic.  Ex 
traordinary,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it. 

"TiMERio,"  which  is  simpler  than  Esperanto, 
"will  enable  citizens  of  all  nations  to  understand 
one  another,  provided  they  can  read  and  write." 
The  inventor  has  found  that  7,006  figures  are 
enough  to  express  any  imaginable  idea.  But  we 
should  think  that  a  picture  book  would  be  simpler. 

"You  can  go  to  any  hotel  porter  in  the  world," 
says  the  perpetrator  of  Timerio,  "and  make  your 
self  understood  by  simply  handing  him  a  slip  of 
paper  written  in  my  new  language."  But  you  can 
do  as  well  with  a  picture  of  a  trunk  and  a  few 
gestures.  The  only  universal  language  that  is 
worth  a  hoot  is  the  French  phrase  "comme  ga." 

DENATURED  LIMERICKS. 

There  was  a  young  man  of  Constantinople, 
Who  used  to  buy  eggs  at  35  cents  the  dozen. 

When  his  father  said,  "Well, 

This  is  certainly  surprising!" 
The  young  man  put  on  his  second  best  waistcoat. 

[293] 


"THE  maddest  man  in  Arizona,"  postcards  J. 
U.  H.,  who  has  got  that  far,  uwas  the  one  who 
found,  after  ten  miles'  hard  drive  from  his  hotel, 
that  he  had  picked  up  the  Gideon  Bible  instead  of 
his  Blue  Book."  Still,  they  are  both  guide  books, 
and  they  might  be  interestingly  compared. 

To  one  gadder  who  asked  for  a  small  coffee, 
the  waitress  in  the  rural  hotel  said,  "A  nickel  is  as 
small  as  we've  got."  Some  people  try  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  the  bucolic  innkeeper. 

"I  HAVE  not  read  American  literature;  I  know 
only  Poe,"  confesses  M.  Maeterlinck.  Well, 
that  is  a  good  start.  For  a  long  time  the  only 
French  author  we  knew  was  Victor  Hugo.  Live 
and  learn,  say  we. 

"HE  is  so  funny  with  the  patisserie/'  says 
Mme.  Maeterlinck  of  M.  Charles  Chaplin.  "He 
is  an  artist  the  way  he  throw  the  pie."  Is  he  not? 
M.  Chaplin  is  to  Americans  what  the  Discus 
Thrower  was  to  the  Greeks. 

SINGS,  in  a  manner  of  singing,  Mr.  Lindsay  in 
the  London  Mercury: 

"I  brag  and  chant  of  Bryan,  Bryan,  Bryan, 
Candidate  for  President  who  sketched  a  silver  Zion." 

[294] 


But  we  prefer,  as  simpler  and  more  emotional,  the 
classic  containing  the  lines — 

"But  my  soul  is  cryin* 
For  old  Bill  Bryan." 

You  are  familiar  with  the  cryptic  inscription 
"TAM  HTAB,"  which  ceases  to  be  cryptic  when 
you  turn  the  mat  over;  but  did  you  ever  hear 
about  the  woman  who  christened  her  child 
"Nosmo  King,"  having  been  taken  by  those 
names  on  two  glass  doors  which  stood  open? 

A  CHIPPEWA  FALLS  advertiser  offers  for  sale 
"six  Leghorn  roosters  and  one  mahogany  settee." 
And  we  are  requested  to  ascertain  whether  the 
settee  is  a  Rhode  Island  Red  or  a  Brown  Leghorn. 

A  ROTARY  club  is  being  formed  in  the  Academy 
by  the  Rev.  Rodney  Roundy  of  the  American 
Missionary  Association. 

WHAT  do  you  mean  "prosperity"?  Even  the 
Nonquit  Spinning  Co.  of  New  Bedford  has  shut 
down. 

JOSEPH  CONRAD'S  latest  yarn  is  the  essence  of 
romance.  But  what  is  romance?  For  years  we 
have  sought  a  definition  in  ten  words;  but  while 
romance  is  easily  recognized,  it  is  with  difficulty 
defined.  Walter  Raleigh  came  the  nearest  to  it 
in  a  recent  essay.  "Romance,"  said  he,  "is  a  love 
[295] 


affair  in  other  than  domestic  surroundings/'  This 
would  seem  also  to  be  the  opinion  of  a  West  Vir 
ginia  editor,  who,  reporting  a  marriage,  noted 
that  "the  couple  were  made  man  and  wife  while 
sitting  in  a  buggy,  and  this  fact  rendered  some 
what  of  a  romantic  aspect  to  the  wedding." 

MY  LOVE,  DID  YOU  KNOW  THERE  WERE 
SO  MANY  KINDS  OF  MAIDS? 

[From  the  Derbyshire  Advertiser.] 

Mrs.  .Reeves  requires — Cooks,  £18  to  £50, 
with  Kitchenmaids,  Scullerymaids,  Betweenmaids, 
and  Single-handed;  Upper,  Single-handed,  Second, 
Under  Parlourmaids  £14  to  £40;  Head,  Single- 
handed,  Equal,  First,  Second,  Third,  Fourth, 
Fifth  and  Under  Housemaids,  good  wages; 
Ladies'  Maids,  Useful  Maids,  Maid-Attendants, 
Maids,  Housemaids,  House-Sewingmaids,  £18  to 
£30;  Chambermaids,  Housemaids,  Stillroom- 
maids,  Pantry-maids,  Cooks,  £20  to  £52;  Kitchen- 
maids,  £12  to  £30;  Staffmaids,  Hallmaids,  etc. 

A  YARN  about  a  clean  Turk  reminded  W.  D. 
W.  of  a  story  that  came  straight  from  Gallipoli; 
and  in  running  over  the  files  of  the  Line  we  hap 
pened  on  it.  Some  British  officers  were  arguing 
as  to  which  had  the  stronger  odor,  the  regimental 
goat  or  a  Turk.  It  was  agreed  to  submit  the 
matter  to  a  practical  test,  with  the  Colonel  as  re- 
[296] 


feree.  The  goat  was  brought  in,  whereupon  the 
Colonel  fainted.  A  Turk  was  then  brought  in, 
whereupon  the  goat  fainted. 

As  confirming  that  goat  and  Turk  story,  the 
following  extract  from  a  British  soldier's  letter, 
explaining  the  retreat  before  Bagdad,  is  sub 
mitted  : 

"We  had  been  pursuing  the  Turks  for  several 
weeks,  and  victory  was  within  our  grasp,  when 
the  wind  changed." 

As  a  variant  for  "loophound,"  may  we  suggest 
"prominent  hound  about  town"? 

THE  Isle  of  Yap,  the  Isle  of  Yap, 
Where  burning  Sappho  never  sung ! 

You  ain't  so  much  upon  the  map, 

But  Uncle  Samuel  murmurs,  "Stung!" 

"AFTER  submitting  a  contribution,  how  long 
must  one  remain  in  suspense?"  asks  E.  L.  W. 
That,  sir,  depends,  as  has  been  well  said.  But 
you  would  be  safe  in  assuming,  after,  say,  three 
months,  that  the  contribution  has  been  mislaid. 

THE  SECOND  POST. 

[Result  of  a  collection  letter  that  drew  a  sum  on  account] 

"Don't  get  peevish  about  this.     I  have  a  wife 
and  large  family.     More  coming." 
[297] 


HEARD  in  the  Fort  Des  Moines  Hotel:  "Call 
for  Mrs.  Rugg!  Call  for  Mrs.  Rugg!  Is  she 
on  the  floor  ?" 

YES,  SOMETIMES  WE  THROW  THE  WHOLE 
MAIL  AWAY  WITHOUT  LOOKING  AT  IT. 

[From  the  Madison  State  Journal.] 

It  isn't  "B.  L.  T."  and  "F.  P.  A."  that  makes 
the  respective  columns  of  these  most  celebrated 
of  the  "conductors"  great.  It  is  their  daily  mail. 
It  comes  to  them  in  great  bags.  They  open 
enough  letters  to  fill  that  day's  column,  and  con 
sign  thousands,  unopened,  to  the  waste  basket. 
There  is  a  fortune  to  some  newspaper  syndicate 
in  the  unopened  mail  of  "B.L.T."  and  "F.P.A." 

A  LIMOUSINE  delegate  from  the  Federated 
Order  of  Line  Scribes  has  waited  on  us  to  present 
the  demands  of  the  organization,  among  which 
are  (i)  recognition  of  the  union;  (2)  appoint 
ing  a  time  and  place  for  meeting  with  a  business 
committee  to  determine  on  a  system  of  collective 
bargaining  for  Line  material;  (3)  allowing  the 
Order  to  have  a  voice  in  the  management  of  the 
column.  A  prompt  compliance  with  the  demands 
of  the  Order  failing,  a  strike  vote  will  be  ordered. 

We  have  never  limited  the  output  of  a  con 
tributor;  the  union  will.  No  matter  how  excel 
lent  the  idea,  no  matter  how  inspired  the  contrib 

[298] 


may  be  to  amplify  it,  he  will  not  be  permitted  to 
do  more  than  a  certain  amount  of  work  per  day. 
However  brilliant  he  may  be,  he  will  be  held 
down  to  the  level  of  the  most  pedestrian  per 
former.  In  unionizing,  moreover,  he  will  be 
only  exchanging  one  tyrant  for  another,  and  per 
haps  not  so  benevolent  a  one.  Now,  then,  go  to 
it,  as  the  emperor  said  to  the  gladiators. 

ALL  RIGHT,  DAISY. 

Dear  B.   L.   T.,  pray  take  this  hint: 
I  shrink  to  see  my  name  in  print, 
The  agate  line — O  please! — for  me. 
I   sign   myself  just — 

DAISY  B. 

THE  SHY  AND  LOWLYS. 

I'm  modest  and  meek, 
And  not  a  bit  pushing. 

Please  set  in  Antique, 
Or  14  point  Gushing. 

IRIS. 

HE  MIGHT  TRIM  THE  VIOLETS. 

Sir:      Could    you    find    an    inconspicuous    job 
around  the  Academy  for  a  bashful  man  like  Mr. 
Jess   Mee,   whom  we  had  the  pleasure  of  en 
countering  in  Toulon,  111.  ? 
[299] 


WE  welcome  Mr.  Mark  Sullivan,  who  fights 
the  high  cost  of  existence  by  turning  his  clothes 
inside  out,  to  our  recently  established  league,  The 
Order  of  the  Turning  Worm.  Mr.  Sullivan, 
meet  Mr.  Facing-Both-Ways. 

MR.  MARK  SULLIVAN  may  be  interested  in  this 
case:  uMy  husband,"  relates  a  reader,  "did  a 
job  of  turning  for  a  man  reputed  to  be  wealthy. 
He  removed  the  shingles  from  a  roof,  and  turned 
all  except  those  which  were  impossible :  these  few 
were  replaced  by  new  ones.  The  last  I  heard 
about  this  man  he  was  said  to  have  refused 
Liberty  loan  salesmen  to  solicit  in  his  factory." 

FIVE  years  ago  a  neighbor  told  us  that  he  had 
his  clothes  turned  after  a  season  or  two  of  wear, 
but  we  neglected  to  ask  him  how  he  shifted  the 
buttonholes  to  the  proper  side.  Left-handed 
buttoning  would  be  rather  awkward,  especially  if 
one  were  in  a  hurry. 

Miss  FORSYTHE  of  the  Trades  Union  league 
explains  that  young  women  in  domestic  service 
feel  there  is  a  social  stigma  attached  to  the  work. 
It  is  this  stigmatism,  no  doubt,  that  causes  them 
to  break  so  many  dishes.  Anyway,  Stigma  is  a 
lovely  name  for  a  maid,  just  as  pretty  as  Hilda. 

"WHY  care  for  grammar  as  long  as  we  are 
good?"  inquired  Artemus  Ward.     A  question  to 
[300] 


be  matched  by  that  of  the  superintendent  of  Cook 
county's  schools,  "Why  shouldn't  a  man  say  'It's 
me'  and  'It  don't'?"  Why  not,  indeed!  How 
absurd  was  Prof.  McCoosh  of  Princeton,  who, 
having  answered  "It's  me"  to  a  student  inquiry, 
"Who's  there?"  retreated  because  of  his  mortifi 
cation  for  not  having  said  "It's  I."  Silly  old 
duffer !  He  would  not  have  enjoyed  Joseph  Con 
rad,  who  uses  unblushingly  the  locution,  "except 
you  and  I." 

No,  let  the  school  children,  like  them  (or  like 
they)  of  Rheims,  cry  out,  "That's  him!"  Usus 
loquendi  has  made  that  as  mellifluous  as  "that's 
me."  It  don't  make  you  writhe,  do  it?  Besides, 
we  are  all  sinners,  like  McCoosh.  And  as  a 
gentleman  writes  to  the  Scott  County,  Ind., 
Journal,  "Let  he  that  is  without  fault  cast  the 
first  stone." 

"I  WANT  to  use  the  'lightning-bug'  verse," 
writes  Ursus.  "Please  reprint  it  and  say  to 
whom  credit  should  be  given." 

It  is  easier  to  reprint  the  lines  than  to  locate 
the  credit,  but  we  have  always  associated  them 
with  Eugene  Ware.  They  go — 

"The  lightning-bug   is   brilliant,   but   he  hasn't  any 

mind ; 

He  stumbles  through   existence  with  his  headlight 
on  behind." 


THE  Harmony  Cafeteria  advertises,  "Eat  the 
Harmony  Way."  A  gentleman  who  lunched 
there  yesterday  counted  eighteen  sword- 
swallowers. 

REMINDFUL  of  the  bow-legged  floorwalker 
who  said,  "Walk  this  way,  madam." 

WATCHING  the  play,  "At  the  Villa  Rose,"  our 
thoughts  wandered  back  to  "Prince  Otto,"  in 
which  piece  we  first  saw  Otis  Skinner.  And  we 
wondered  precisely  what  George  Moore  means 
when  he  says  that  Stevenson  is  all  right  except 
when  he  tries  to  tell  a  story.  According  to 
Moore,  a  story  is  not  a  story  if  it  keeps  you  up 
half  the  night;  "it  is  only  the  insignificant  book 
that  cannot  be  laid  down,"  he  once  maintained. 

WHAT  is  a  story?  To  us  it  is  drama  first, 
operating  on  character.  To  Conrad  it  is  char 
acter  first,  being  operated  on  by  drama.  That 
may  be  why  we  prefer  "The  Wrecker"  to  "The 
Rescue." 

WRITES  M.  G.  M.  from  Denver:  "Madame 
Pompadour,  late  of  Chicago,  opened  a  beauty 
shop  here,  and  one  of  our  up-to-date  young  ladies 
asked  her  if  she  was  doing  the  hair  in  the  crime 
wave  so  popular  in  Chicago." 
[302] 


TRADE  ADIEUS. 

Sir:  After  I  had  entertained  a  saleslady  all 
evening  and  had  said  good-night  at  her  abode, 
she  murmured,  "Thanks I  Will  that  be  all?" 

C.  H.  S. 

ACCORDING  to  Dr.  Kumm  of  the  Royal  British 
Geographical  Society,  the  natives  of  Uganda  are 
happier  than  we.  So  are  the  camels  of  Sahara. 
But  hoonel,  as  Orpheus  asked  Eurydice,  wants  to 
be  a  camel? 


[303] 


Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 

BEING   A    FEW    HITHERTO    UNPUBLISHED    PAGES    FROM    HIS   JOURNAL. 

I. 

IN  this,  the  seven  and  twentieth  year  of  my 
captivity,  I  have  been  much  distressed  by  the 
monotony  of  my  existence.  My  habitation  is  as 
complete  as  I  can  wish ;  I  have  all  the  clothing  to 
my  need;  and  my  subjects — my  man  Friday  and 
his  father,  and  the  Spaniard — -keep  me  abun 
dantly  supplied  with  food.  When  I  was  alone 
the  necessity  of  husbandry  gave  me  plenty  to  do, 
but  now  I  am  oppressed  by  a  great  lack  of  matter 
for  occupation,  both  physical  and  mental.  Ques 
tioning  myself,  I  put  the  blame  upon  an  evil  state 
of  mind  into  which  I  have  fallen,  in  no  longer 
finding  profit  in  reading  my  bible  and  other  books, 
or  in  meditating  on  this  life  and  that  which  is  to 
come. 

I  am  rich  in  that  I  want  for  no  material  thing; 
and  I  am  idle,  in  that  I  do  naught  to  profit  myself 
or  my  companions;  so  that,  although  practically 
a  solitary,  I  am,  as  you  might  say,  an  idle  rich 
class,  and  were  I  multiplied  by  thousands  I  should 
be  a  grievous  burden  on  society. 

Friday,  perceiving  the  state  of  my  mind,  has 
set  himself  to  entertain  me,  and,  being  an  in 
genious  fellow,  will  no  doubt  succeed.  As  a  be 
ginning  he  took  unto  himself  the  management  of 

[305] 


our  simple  meals,  and  he  has  contrived  so  to  ex 
pand  them,  both  in  quantity  of  food  and  time 
spent  in  consuming  it,  that  a  large  part  of  my  day 
is  now  given  over  to  eating.  I  drink  a  great  deal 
of  wine  with  my  meals,  and  of  rum  also,  a  great 
store  of  which  I  saved  from  the  wreck;  and  these 
strong  waters,  added  to  the  great  quantity  of 
food  consumed,  produce  in  me  a  pleasant  torpor, 
which  I  find  to  be  a  satisfactory  substitute  for 
meditation. 

II. 

My  man  Friday  came  running  to  me  this  after 
noon  to  relate  that  umany  great  number"  of  sav 
ages  were  landed  on  our  shore,  and  that,  by  the 
preparations  the  wretches  were  making,  a  great 
feast  was  intended.  The  news  was  extremely 
welcome,  for  I  have  become  so  bored  by  the  mo 
notony  of  existence  that  any  pretext  for  going 
abroad  after  nightfall  is  a  godsend.  So  after  dis 
posing  of  a  heavy  dinner,  that  included  six  kinds 
of  wines  and  liquors,  my  carriage,  as  I  called  it 
(though  it  was  no  more  than  a  litter) ,  was  fetched 
by  Friday  and  his  father;  and  followed  by  the 
Spaniard,  carrying  my  cloak  and  perspective  glass, 
I  set  out  for  a  little  wooded  hill  that  overlooked 
the  beach  on  which  the  savages  were  encamped. 

The  dreadful  wretches  had  finished  their  in- 

[306] 


human  feast  and  were  squatting  on  the  sand, 
watching  one  of  their  number,  a  comely  female, 
who  was  dancing  wildly  in  a  circle  of  strong  fire 
light.  The  body  of  this  creature  was  swathed  in 
veils,  which  she  removed,  one  after  the  other, 
until  she  was  wholly  naked.  This  degrading 
spectacle  seemed  to  be  enormously  enjoyed  by 
the  spectators,  who  were  grouped  in  the  form  of 
a  horseshoe.  I  observed,  also,  that  they  were 
decorated  with  feathers  and  glass  beads,  and  that, 
except  for  these  ornaments,  were  as  naked  as  the 
dancer. 

My  Spaniard,  a  God  fearing  man,  was  greatly 
shocked  by  the  sight,  and  my  man  Friday,  too, 
was  strongly  affected;  but  to  my  shame  I  must 
confess  that  I  did  not  share  their  abhorrence. 
Yet  even  my  stomach  began  to  protest  when  the 
dancer,  darting  to  one  of  the  canoes,  appeared 
with  a  gory  head  that  had  been  chopped  from  one 
of  the  victims  of  the  feast,  and  continued  her 
shocking  gyrations,  to  a  most  infernal  din  of  bar 
barous  musical  instruments  that  half  a  hundred  of 
the  wretches  were  beating.  The  Spaniard  and 
Friday  urged,  in  their  indignation,  that  we  dis 
charge  our  muskets  at  the  unholy  crew;  but  I 
restrained  them  from  such  an  intelligible  piece  of 
violence,  reflecting  that  the  barbarous  customs  of 
these  people  might  be  regarded  as  their  own  dis 
aster,  and  that  I  was  not  called  upon  to  judge 
[307] 


their  actions,  much  less  to  execute  the  judgment 
of  heaven  upon  them.  Besides,  they  were  in  such 
numbers  that,  had  we  attacked,  we  should  have 
been  overwhelmed.  So,  calling  for  my  litter,  I 
returned  to  my  habitation. 


[308] 


A  LINE-O'-TYPE  OR  TWO 


Hew  to  the  Line,  let  the  quips  fall  where  they  may. 


AN  artist  friend,  back  from  the  Land  of  Taos, 
brings  word  of  another  artist  who  is  achieving  in 
fluence  by  raising  hogs — or  "picture  buyers,"  as 
he  sardonically  calls  them.  This  set  us  to  won 
dering  what  had  become  of  Arthur  Dove,  one  of 
the  first  of  the  Einstein  school  to  exhibit  in  this 
town.  Despairing  of  the  public  intelligence,  Mr. 
Dove  took  up  the  raising  of  chickens,  and  very 
old  readers  of  this  column  may  recall  the  verses 
in  which  we  celebrated  his  withdrawal  from  art: 


THE  BROODING  DOVE. 

Arthur  Dove  is  raising  chickens, 
He  has  put  his  paints  away: 

Tell  me,  Chronos,  where  the  dickens 
Are  the  Cubes  of  yesterday! 

Dove  was  real,  Dove  was  earnest, 
But  his  efforts  came  to  nix. 

Bowing  to  decree  the  sternest, 
He  has  gone  to  raising  chicks. 

[309] 


There's  a  strong  demand  for  broilers, 
There's  a  call  for  chicken-pie; 

Dove  declined  to  paint  pot-boilers, 
So  he  put  his  brushes  by. 

Luck  attend  his  every  setting! 

May  his  inspirations  hatch! 
And,  whatever  price  he's  getting, 

May  he  market  every  batch. 

"PERPETUAL  reduction  of  my  audience  is  my 
hobby,"  observes  Mr.  Yeats,  who  aspires  to  be 
the  Einstein  of  song.  When  only  twelve 
disciples  are  able  to  understand  him,  he  will  be 
content. 

A  SCIENTIFIC  expedition  will  hunt  for  the 
missing  link  in  Asia,  and  may  find  it.  But  it  will 
never  be  known  whether  the  m.  1.  was  capable  of 
the  popular  songs  which  one  sees  in  the  windows 
of  music  stores,  or  whether  it  could  have  done 
something  better. 

THE  gadder  contrib  who  uses  the  Gideon  Bible 
to  hold  the  shaving  mirror  at  the  right  angle  is 
properly  rebuked  by  sundry  readers.  As  one  of 
them,  M.  B.  C.,  says,  he  may  make  the  Line,  but 
he'll  have  a  close  shave  if  he  makes  heaven. 

WE  imagine  the  Gideon  Bible  is  read  more 
than  may  be  supposed.     Evening  in  a  small  town 
[310] 


must  be  desperately  dull  to  many  travelers.  And 
there  are  better  love  stories  in  the  Bible  than  can 
be  bought  on  the  trains.  Some  of  our  gadding 
contribs  have  so  good  a  writing  style  that  we  feel 
sure  it  must  have  been  influenced  by  the  Great 
Book. 

A  STERN  PEDAGOGUE. 

[From  the  Antelope,  Montana,  local.] 

Miss  Gladys  Spank  arrived  here  from  Boze- 
man  last  Saturday  and  is  again  teaching  in  the 
school  near  Williams. 

OUR  esteemed  contemporaries,  F.  P.  A.,  Don 
Marquis,  and  Chris  Morley,  have  taken  the  pains 
to  reply  to  Miss  Amy  Lowell's  recent  remark  that 
"colyums"  are  "ghastly  and  pitiful."  Dear! 
dear!  What  has  happened  to  their  sense  of 
humor? 

SHE  NOT  ONLY  HAS  A  BOOK.    SHE  HAS 
TWO! 

"I  wish  to  buy  a  book  for  a  young  lady,"  infoed 
the  blond  mustached  one  to  a  clerk  at  McClurg's. 
"She  has  both  the  'Rubaiyat'  and  'A  Tale  of  Two 
Cities.'  What  do  you  advise  ?"  O.  B.  W. 

"I  NEVER  could  get  to  Detour,  either,"  com 
municates  Jezebel,  "but  recently,  on  a  train,  I 
passed  through  Derail,  which  seems  to  be  a  fairly 


thriving  village,   although   some   of  the   houses 
need  paint." 

Dl^  Old  readers  detour  here — 

YES,  YES. 

Sir:     Herbert  F.  Antunes  is  a  piano  tuner  in 
Evanston.  L.  L.  B. 

Resume  main  pike. 


YE  STUFF. 

Sir:  uYee  Laundry"  reads  the  sign  over  Yee 
King's  washee  at  Deming,  N.  M.  Wherein  ye 
olde  world  is  joined  with  ye  olde  English. 

C.  P.  A. 

"HENRY  FORD  is  poverty  stricken  intellectu 
ally,  morally,  and  spiritually."  —  Comrade 
Spargo. 

Hint  for  Briggs:  "Wonder  what  Henry  Ford 
thinks  about?" 

POWELL'S  taxicab  service  in  Polo,  111.,  offers  "a 
rattle  with  every  ride,"  and  for  the  life  of  us  we 
can't  imagine  the  kind  of  car  employed. 

SPEAKING  of  Detour  and  Derail,  "I  wonder," 
wonders  A.  T.,  "whether  in  your  travels  you 
ever  got  to  Goslow." 


DATED. 

Sir:  From  the  Blue  Book:  "Pleasant  View. 
Saloon  on  left  corner.  Turn  left.  Then  follow 
winding  road."  A.  C. 

YOU  KNOW  THE  TUNE. 

"No  GIRL/'  say  the  rules  of  Northwestern  Uni 
versity,  "must  walk  the  campus  after  dusk,  unless 
to  the  library  or  to  lectures,  or  for  purposes  of 
learning." 

I'm  a  merry  little  campus  maid, 

The  campus  sward  I  rove, 
Picking  Greek  roots  all  the  day 
And  learning  how  to  love. 

CONSIDERING  "A  Treasury  of  English  Prose," 
— prose  that  rivals  great  poetry — Mr.  J.  C. 
Squire  came  to  an  interesting  conclusion — that 
"there  is  an  established,  an  inevitable,  manner 
into  which  an  Englishman  will  rise  when  his  ideas 
and  images  lift  into  grandeur;  the  style  of  the 
Authorized  Version." 

AUGUSTE  COMTE  listed  five  hundred  and  fifty- 
eight  men  and  women  who  could  be  considered 
great  in  the  history  of  the  world.  An  English 
writer,  striking  from  the  list  names  that  he  had 
never  heard  of  before,  arrives  at  the  "astounding 

[313] 


fact"  that  since  the  dawn  of  history  fewer  than 
three  hundred  and  fifty  great  men  have  lived. 
We  too  are  astounded.  We  had  no  notion  there 
were  so  many. 

"GREAT  BRITAIN,"  says  Lloyd  George,  "must 
be  freed  of  ignorance,  insobriety,  penury,  and  the 
tyranny  of  man  over  man."  That  ought  not  to 
require  more  than  three  or  four  glacial  periods. 

THE  Woman's  Club  asks  for  "jingles  for  the 
jaw."  Well,  here  are  two  from  C.  L.  Edson. 
Try  them  on  your  jaw: 

THE  TREE  TOADS. 

A  tree  toad  loved  a  she  toad 

That  lived  up  in  a  tree; 
She  was  a  three-toed  tree  toad, 

But  a  two-toed  toad  was  he. 

The  two-toed  tree  toad  tried  to  win 

The  she  toad's  friendly  nod; 
For  the  two-toed  tree  toad  loved  the  ground 

That  the  three-toed  tree  toad  trod. 

But  vainly  the  two-toed  tree  toad  tried — 

He  couldn't  please  her  whim; 
In  her  tree  toad  bower 
With  her  V-toe  power, 

The  she  toad  vetoed  him. 

[314] 


THE  RIDER  AND  THE  ADDER. 

Miss  Tudor  was  a  rider  in  a  famous  circus  show; 
For  a  pet  she  had  an  adder — and  the  adder  loved  her 
so! 

She  fed  the  adder  dodder.     It's  a  plant  that  lives  on  air, 
Could  you  find  an  odder  fodder  if  you  hunted  every 
where  ? 

Miss  Tudor  bought  some  madder.     It's  a  color  rather 

rare, 
And  it  made  the  adder  shudder  when  Miss  Tudor  dyed 

her  hair. 

Her  hair  was  soft  as  eider  when  she  tried  her  madder  dye ; 
Then,  it  had  an  odder  odor — and  was  redder  than  the 
sky. 

The  adder  couldn't  chide  'er.     It  could  only  idle  stare, 
But  a  sadder  adder  eyed  'er  when  the  rider  dyed  'er  hair. 


ONE  of  our  readers  was  dozing  in  the  lobby  of 
a  Boston  hotel  when  he  was  aroused  by  an  alter 
cation  near  the  cigar  stand.  A  was  wagering  B 
that  the  name  of  the  heroine  of  "The  Scarlet 
Letter"  was  Hester  Thorne,  B  maintaining  that 
it  was  Hester  Prim.  The  manager  of  the  hotel 
was  about  to  call  the  police,  forgetting  that  there 
were  none,  when  the  gum-chewing  divinity  behind 
the  case  awarded  the  decision  to  B,  and  the  crowd 
reluctantly  dispersed. 

[315] 


WE  have  on  hand  a  column  of  favorite  wheezes 
sent  in  response  to  our  invitation,  and  the  only 
reason  we  have  not  printed  them  is  the  prepon 
derance  of  our  own  stuff.  Naturally,  or  not,  we 
are  better  amused  by  the  wheezes  of  contributors. 
Frexample  the  following  evoked  a  smile: 

"On  the  train  running  into  Tulsa,"  wrote  a 
gadder,  "a  native  was  fooling  with  the  roller  cur 
tain,  when  suddenly  it  flew  up  with  a  snap.  He 
looked  bewildered,  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  win 
dow,  and  finally  said  to  himself,  'Well,  I  reckon 
that's  the  last  they'll  see  of  that  derned  thing!'  " 

As  we  have  been  informed,  and  as  we  repeat 
for  the  benefit  of  the  School  of  Journalism,  there 
is  nothing  to  running  a  column  except  the  knack 
of  writing  more  or  less  apt  headlines.  And  so 
for  the  instruction  of  students  whose  ambition 
may  be  vaulting  in  that  direction  we  will  reopen 
a  short  court  in  head-writing.  See  what  you  can 
do  with  the  divorce  suit  of  Hazel  Nutt  against 
John  P.  Nutt,  filed  in  a  Florida  court. 

As  to  the  divorce  suit  of  Hazel  Nutt  vs.  John 
P.  Nutt,  M.  M.  C.  offers,  "Shucks!" 

ANOTHER  happy  headline  for  the  Nutt  vs.  Nutt 
divorce  suit,  suggested  by  Battle  Creek:  "Two 
Nutts  Will  Soon  Be  Loose." 


THE  hand-painted  baby-blue  pencil  for  the  best 
headline  last  week  goes  to  the  artist  on  the  San 
Francisco  Chronicle  for  the  following: 

"Prehistoric  Skulls  Found  Digging  Wells." 

WE  see  by  the  paper — our  favorite  medium  of 
information — that  Duluth  is  to  have  an  evening 
of  "wrestling  and  dance."  A  keen  eye  can 
probably  tell  the  difference. 

THE  drawn-work  decanter,  prize  for  the  best 
headline  for  the  Nutt  vs.  Nutt  divorce  case,  is 
awarded  to  G.  C.  H.  for  his  inspiration,  "Nutts 
for  the  Lawyers." 

LIMERIK. 

There  was  a  young  man  from  Art  Creek 
Who  went  around  dressed  in  Batik. 

When  they  asked,  "Are  you  well?" 

He  replied,  "Ain't  it  hell? 
But  in  Art  it's  the  very  last  shriek." 

RECEIVED  by  a  Missouri  teacher:  "Please  ex 
cuse  Frank  for  being  absent.  I  kneaded  him  at 
home."  In  the  woodshed?  Ouch,  Maw! 

How  could  the  teacher  rebuke  Emil  when  she 
read  this  excuse  from  his  father?  "The  only  ex 
cuse  I  have  for  Emil  being  late  was  nine  o'clock 
came  sooner  than  we  expected." 

[317] 


FOR  our  part,  we  are  moved  to  protest  against 
the  growing  practice  among  parents  of  rebuking 
their  children  for  playing  with  the  children  of 
prohibitionists.  We  should  not  visit  upon  the 
little  ones  the  sins  of  their  intemperate  pro 
genitors. 

"ATTENTION,  Members!"  postcards  the  house 
committee  of  the  Chicago  Real  Estate  Board. 
"Get  your  feet  under  the  table  and  you  are 
putting  your  shoulder  behind  your  board."  This 
is  another  good  reducing  exercise. 

WITH  the  return  of  the  railroads  to  private 
control,  we  look  for  an  immediate  improvement 
in  the  service.  For,  as  the  dining-car  waiter  said, 
when  requested  to  brush  the  crumbs  from  a  table : 
"We's  workin'  for  the  government  now.  We 
don't  have  to  brush  no  crumbs  off  no  more." 
Well,  he'll  brush  some  crumbs  off  some  more 
now,  or  he'll  be  fired. 

ONE  may  send  "harmless  live  animals"  by  par 
cel  post,  with  the  chances  eight  to  five  that  the 
animal  will  be  reduced  to  pulp  or  die  of  old  age. 

THE  CHIGGER. 

When  the  enterprising  chigger  is  a-chigging 
And  maturing  his  felonious  little  plan, 

He  loves  to  climb  the  lingerie  and  rigging 
And  tunnel  into  Annabel  and  Ann. 

[318] 


The  chigger  then  with  chloroform  they  smother, 
His  little  hour  of  pleasure  then  is  o'er, 

So  take  this  consideration  with  the  other, 
A  chigger's  life  is  pretty  much  a  bore. 

A  VERSATILE  CHAP. 
[From  the  Turton,  S.  D.,  Trumpet.] 

Victor  LaBrie  gave  several  fine  selections  on  the 
piano.  Victor  is  a  splendid  musician.  When  he 
plays  he  has  full  control  of  the  piano,  and  has 
splendid  harmony  to  his  selections. 

Victor  LaBrie  started  dragging  Monday  after 
noon.  He  used  the  tractor  and  stated  that  it 
worked  up  fine. 

"SEEING  is  believing,"  says  the  vender  of  a 
piano  player.  But  perhaps  you  would  prefer 
auricular  evidence. 

"THE  only  fad  I  have  had  for  the  last  twenty- 
six  years  is  my  husband." — Mrs.  Harding. 

This  is  one  of  the  very  few  really  worthy  fads 
that  women  have  ever  taken  up. 

ACT  II.,  SCENE  II. 

JULIET. 

What's  in  a  name?     That  which  we  call  a  rose 
By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet. 

ROMEO. 

Thou   sayest   a   mouthful,   love.     And  yet  how 
come 

[319] 


That  Myra  Tinkelpaugh,  of  Cobleskill, 
New  York,  conducts  therein  The  Music  Shop  ? 

MR.  SINK  having  resigned  as  plumber  to  the 
Immortals,  we  are  recommending  in  his  place  the 
plumbing  firm  of  Jamin  &  Jerkin,  of  St.  Peters 
burg,  Fla. 

"Buy  a  communication  ticket,"  advises  a  res 
taurant.  This,  understands  E.  S.,  gives  you  the 
privilege  of  talking  with  the  waitresses. 

"EVERY  American  man  has  a  mental  picture  of 
his  wife  standing  behind  the  door  with  a  rolling- 
pin." — Blasco  Ibanez. 

We  fear  the  gifted  Spaniard  has  acquired  an 
idea  of  American  domestic  life  from  Mr.  Tom 
Powers'  sketches  and  other  back-page  comics. 

A  READER  wonders  what  we  can  find  in  a  book 
so  childishly  egotistical  as  Margot  Asquith's 
Autobiography.  Answer :  much  that  is  interest 
ing.  When  we  read  an  autobiography  we  are  in 
terested  in  the  people  written  about  rather  than 
in  the  writer.  There  are  exceptions,  of  course; 
for  example,  Henry  Adams  and  Jacques  Casa 
nova. 

[320] 


THE  JANITOR  ENTERTAINS. 

[Iowa   City  Item.] 

An  unusual  function  for  men  in  business  circles 
was  that  which  John  Voelkel,  janitor  of  the  First 
National  bank,  supervised,  Saturday  evening. 
He  gave  a  dinner,  card  party  and  .a  smoker  to  all 
the  officers  of  the  bank.  Invitations  were  issued 
to  every  member  of  the  staff,  from  president  to 
clerk,  and  those  who  assembled  at  the  custodian's 
home  made  merry  for  several  hours  at  an  event 
probably  without  a  duplicate  in  banking  history  in 
Iowa  City. 

VARIANT  OF  THE  V.  H.  W. 

Sir:  Please  send  me  a  copy  of  the  famous 
valve  handle  wheeze.  I  have  heard  so  much 
about  it.  I  hope  this  reaches  you  before  your 
limited  supply  is  exhausted.  O.  G.  C. 

P.  S. — One  of  the  fellows  in  the  office  just  told 
me  the  joke,  so  you  need  not  bother  to  send  me 
a  copy.  O.  G.  C. 

CRUELLE  ET  INSOLITE. 

[Transfer  slip,  Peninsular  Railway  Co.] 

This  ticket  is  good  for  one  continuous  passage 
only  in  the  direction  shown  by  conductor's  punch 
in  the  face  hereof. 

[320 


HIGH,  LOW,  JACK,  AND  THE  GAME. 

Sir:  While  visiting  in  a  New  England  family 
I  accused  them  of  being  "highbrows,"  and  they 
gave  me  these  modern  synonyms  for  highbrow 
and  lowbrow,  taken  from  a  Boston  paper : 

Highbrow:  Browning,  anthropology,  eco 
nomics,  Bacon,  the  string  quartette,  the  uplift,  in 
herent  sin,  Gibbon,  fourth  dimension,  Euripides, 
"eyether,"  pate  de  fois  gras,  lemon  phosphate, 
Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  Woodrow  Wilson. 

Low-highbrow:  Municipal  government,  Kip 
ling,  socialism,  Shakespeare,  politics,  Thackeray, 
taxation,  golf,  grand  opera,  bridge,  chicken  a  la 
Maryland,  "eether,"  stocks  and  bonds,  gin  rickey, 
Theodore  Roosevelt,  chewing  gum  in  private. 

High-lowbrow:  Musical  comedy,  euchre,  base 
ball,  moving  pictures,  small  steak  medium, 
whisky,  Robert  W.  Chambers,  purple  socks,  chew 
ing  gum  with  friends. 

Lowbrow:  Laura  Jean  Libbey,  ham  sand 
wich,  haven't  came,  pitch,  I  and  her,  melodrama, 
hair  oil,  the  Duchess,  beer,  George  M.  Cohan, 
red  flannels,  toothpicks,  Bathhouse  John,  chewing 
gum  in  public.  E.  S. 

A  BACHELOR  complains  to  us  that  prohibition 
has  ruined  his  life.     His  companions  have  de 
serted  their  haunts — all,   all   are  gone,   the   old 
familiar  faces — and  he  can  find  no  one  to  talk 
[322] 


to;  and  he  talks  very  well,  too.  Now,  we  have 
as  much  compassion  for  him  as  it  is  possible  to 
have  for  any  bachelor,  and  yet  we  do  not  esteem 
his  case  utterly  hopeless.  As  Mr.  Lardner  has 
suggested,  when  he  repairs  to  his  hotel  at  night  he 
can  open  the  clothespress  and  talk  to  his  other  suit 
of  clothes. 

TOLSTOI'S  "Power  of  Darkness"  reminds  P.  G. 
Wodehouse  of  a  definition  of  Greek  tragedy — 
the  sort  of  drama  in  which  one  character  comes  to 
another  and  says,  "If  you  don't  kill  mother,  / 
will!" 

"THE  jehu  of  the  rubber-neck  wagon,"  reports 
a  gadder  from  Loz  Onglaze,  "called  out:  'We 
are  now  in  the  center  of  the  old  aristocratic  cen 
ter.  That  palatial  residence  on  our  left  is  the 
home  of  Fatty  Arbuckle.'  " 

MORNING  IN  IOWA. 

A  cold,  rough,  gloomy  morning! 
'Gainst  yellow  dawn  the  smoke 
Of  neighbors'  chimneys  stains  the  air, 
Reminding  me  that  yon  grim,  white-capped  cone, 
Which  like  a  second  Rainier  stands  in  my  back 
yard, 

Like  him  of  ash  and  cinders  built,  now  calls 
For  more  upbuilding.    That  white  bloom 
Which  last  night's  snow  hath  left  upon 
[323] 


His  smooth  and  awful  sides  must  now 
Be  sicklied  o'er  with  more  and  yet  more 
Ashes. 

What's   that  I  smell — buckwheats? 
And  Whafs-his-name's  pig  sausage? 
It  is?    Aha! 
Gee,  what  a  peach  of  a  morning! 

ABD-EL-KADER. 

AN  EVENING  WITH  SHAKESPEARE. 

Sir:  Overheard  at  the  Studebaker:  "What's 
put  him  off  his  nut?"  Lady,  answering:  "He 
ain't  really  bugs — it's  a  stall.  The  old  guy  [Po- 
lonius]  thinks  he's  got  something  on  him." 

P.  S.  D. 

YOURS,  ETC. 

Sir:  The  height  of  efficiency  is  attained  by 
Mervin  L.  Lane,  Insurance  Service,  New  York, 
who  prints  on  his  letterhead,  "Unnecessary  terms 
of  politeness  as  well  as  assurances  of  self-evident 
esteem  are  omitted  from  our  letters." 

E.  A.  D. 

"Ix  costs  30,000  Lenin  rubles  a  day  for  food 
alone,"  says  Prof.  Zeidler  of  Viborg,  referring  to 
so-called  life  in  Russia.  Apparently,  then,  Lenin 
has  not  yet  succeeded  in  making  money  utterly 
worthless. 

[324] 


HE  OUGHT  TO  BE  DEPORTED. 

Sir :  Gum  Boot  Charlie,  an  Alaska  native,  was 
discussing  the  present  h.  c.  1.  with  a  group  of  citi 
zens  of  Yakutat,  and  while  condemning  the  pres 
ent  administration  and  conditions  generally,  he 
was  interrupted  by  a  Swede  who  said:  "You  dam 
native,  if  you  don't  like  this  country,  why  don't 
you  go  back  where  you  came  from?" 

W.  W.  K. 

A  CARBONDALE  youth  was  arrested  for  hunt 
ing  out  of  season,  and  the  possession  of  a  gun 
and  a  dog  is  considered,  by  the  Free  Press,  "fac- 
simile  evidence." 

THEN,  as  D.  B.  B.  reminds,  there  are  the  writ 
ers  of  apostrophic  verse  who  skip  lightly  from 
'you'  to  'thou'  and  'thee,'  and  from  'thy'  to  'your.' 
A  language  less  rugged  than  the  English  would 
have  been  destroyed  long  ago. 

WE  learn  from  the  Monticello,  Ind.,  Journal 
that  a  couple  narrowly  escaped  being  asphyxicated 
by  gas  from  an  anthricate  coal  stove.  Young 
Grimes  must  be  reporting  for  that  gazette. 

OVERHEARD  in  an  osteopath's  office:  "When 
does  it  hurt  you  most,  when  you  set  or  when  you 
lay?" 

[325] 


NOTES  OF  THE  ACADEMY  OF  IMMORTALS. 

The  following  nominations  have  been  received: 

For  greenskeeper  on  the  Academy  links:  Mr. 
Launmore  of  Pittsburgh.  Nom.  by  S.  C.  B. 

For  bugler:  Mr.  Mescall  of  Chicago.  Nom. 
by  Circle  W. 

For  legal  counsel:  Atty.  Frank  Lawhead  of 
Detroit.  Nom.  by  H.  D.  T. 

For  any  vacancy :  Mr.  Void  Null  of  Centralia, 
Mo.  Nom.  by  E.  J.  C. 

Miss  SEITSINGER  is  organizing  a  chorus  and 
glee  club  in  the  schools  of  Northwood,  la.  Yes, 
very. 

BUTCHER  TO  THE  ACADEMY. 

Bill  Bull,  the  Butcher,  of  Bartlett,  111., 
Says:  "Trade  with  me.     Cut  down  your  bill." 

A.  G.  C. 

THE  membership  committee  of  the  Academy 
has  received  numerous  protests  against  the  admis 
sion  of  Charles  Ranck,  the  skunk  trapper  of  Ells 
worth,  Neb.,  and  J.  K.  Garlick,  the  "practical 
horseshoer"  of  Sublette,  111. 

ACADEMY  NOTES. 

The  nominations  were  considered  of  Ananias 
Deeds  of  Guthrie  Center,  la.,  and  Mrs.  Tamer 

[3261 


Lyons  of  Upton,  Ind.     The  Academy  then  re 
sumed  work  on  the  Dictionary  of  Names. 

"FOR  goodness'  sake !"  exclaims  Frank  Harris 
in  Pearson's,  expressing  his  joy  in  the  growth  of 
Lenine's  state,  "for  goodness'  sake  let  us  have 
new  experiments  on  this  old  earth."  For  good- 
ness's  sake,  let's!  But  why  not  have  one  on  a 
grand  scale?  Let's  dig  a  hole  a  mile  deep  and  a 
mile  across,  fill  it  with  dynamite,  and  see  whether 
we  can't  finish  the  world  in  one  good  bang. 

"LEARNED  Class  of  Europe  In  Hard  Straits." 
They  are  in  hard  straits  everywhere.    The  more 
learned  you  are,  the  worse  you're  off. 

"BUDAPEST  Hungriest  of  Cities  in  all  Europe." 
— South  Bend  Tribune. 

The  headliner  must  have  his  little  joke. 

WE  DON'T  LIKE  TO  THINK  OF  IT! 

[From  the  Cambridge  Review.] 

Think  of  the  portrait  that  Rembrandt  painted 
of  his  mother  hanging  in  the  living-room  of  his 
parents'  simple  home. 

OUR  blithesome  contemporary,  F.  P.  A.,  is  not 

disturbed  by  the  steel  strike,  as  he  uses  a  gold  pen; 

and  for  a  like  reason  our  withers  are  unwrung. 

Eugene  Field  of  fragrant  memory  used  a  steel 

[327] 


pen.  A  friend  of  ours  was  speaking  of  having 
dropped  in  on  the  poet  just  as  he  was  fitting  a 
new  pen  to  the  holder.  "You  can't  write  anything 
new,"  said  Field,  "unless  you  have  a  new  pen." 

THE  SECOND  POST. 

[Received  by  a  mail  order  house.] 

Dear  Sir:  The  peeaney  you  shipped  me  sum 
time  ago  come  duly  reed.  My,  is  we  souposed  to 
pay  the  frate  charge  onit.  When  we  hot  this  pee- 
anney  you  claimed  to  lie  it  down  to  me.  I  want 
you  two  send  me  quick  as  hell  a  receet  for  2.29  for 
same.  Besyds  the  kees  on  sum  dont  work  a  tall. 
Is  them  ivory  finger  boards.  Are  dealer  here  sed 
we  got  beet  on  this  deel.  Wer  is  the  thing  you 
sect  on?  Is  it  eeen  that  box  on  the  platform  at 
the  depo?  That  luks  two  small  for  it.  Yours 
truely,  etc. 

P.  S. — Wen  you  rite  tel  me  how  two  tune  it. 

FIREPLACE  heating,  says  Dr.  Evans,  is  the 
most  wasteful.  True.  And  the  most  agreeable. 
So  many  things  that  make  life  endurable  in  this 
vale  of  tears  are  wasteful. 

"SiNCE  her  tour  of  the  Pacific  Coast,"  declares 
a  Berkeley  bulletin,  "Miss  Case  has  made  strident 
advances  in  her  art."  The  lady,  it  appears,  sings. 

[328] 


THE  SECOND  POST. 

[Received  by  a  Birmingham  concern.]  , 

Dear  Sirs  and  Gents:  Would  say  this  lady  i 
got  the  Range  for  had  applied  for  a  divorce  and 
was  to  marrey  me  but  she  has  taken  her  soldier 
husband  back  again  and  changed  her  notion  so  i 
don't  think  it  right  to  pay  for  a  range  for  the 
other  man.  let  him  pay  it  out  if  she  will  live  up 
to  her  bargin  i  will  pay  and  could  have  paid  at 
the  time  but  was  afraid  this  would  happen  as  it 
has  she  has  never  rote  or  communicated  with  me 
since  i  left  there  dont  think  it  right  or  justice  that 
i  pay  for  it  and  perhaps  never  see  her  again  had 
they  of  rote  to  me  i  would  have  kept  up  the  pay 
ments  can  first  see  the  parties  what  they  expect  to 
do.  Very  Respect,  etc. 

You  have  observed  the  skinned-rabbit  hair-cut. 
The  barber  achieves  a  gruesome  effect  by  running 
the  clippers  half-way  up  the  skull.  But  did  you 
know  that  it  originated  in  Columbus,  O.  ?  "Yes, 
sir,"  said  the  Columbus  barber  to  Col.  Drury 
Underwood,  "that  started  here.  We  call  it  the 
two-piece  haircut." 

CUPID  CARRIES  A  CARD. 

H.  H.  Lessner,  of  Alton,  111.,  known  as  "Alton's 
Marrying  Justice  of  the  Peace,"  carries  a  union 
label  on  his  stationery. 

[329] 


"I  AM  reading  Marcus  Aurelius  now,"  confides 
Mme.  Galli-Curci  to  an  interviewer.  "One  can 
never  really  grow  tired  of  it,  can  one?"  Well,  if 
you  ask  us,  one  can. 

"ARE  we  going  crazy?" — Senator  Smoot. 
"Wanted,  man  or  woman  to  give  me  a  few  les 
sons  on  ouija  board." — Denver  Post  ad. 
So  it  seems. 


ANNOUNCEMENT! 
In  accordance  with  our  immemorial  cus 
tom  of  giving  our  readers  a  Christmas  holi 
day,  when  it  falls  on  Sunday,  the  Line-o'- 
Type  will  not  be  published  to-morrow. 


F3301 


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This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or  on  the 

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